EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

BT  CHARLES    LEWIS    SLATTERY   i"? 


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EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 


^p  C|)arlt0  Ltroia  S^Iatterp 


The  Master  of  the  World:  A  Study  of 
Christ.     Crown  octavo. 

Life  Beyond  Life:  A  Study  of  Immortality. 
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The  Historic  Ministry  and  the  Present 
Christ:  An  Appeal  for  Unity.  Crown 
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Present-Day  Preaching.     Crown  octavo. 
The  Authority  of  Religious  Experience. 
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n 

Feldc  Reville  Brunot  (1820-1898):  A 
Civilian  in  the  War  for  the  Union;  Presi- 
dent of  the  First  Board  of  Indian  Com- 
missioners. With  Portraits,  Illustrations, 
and  a  Map.     Crown  octavo. 

Edward  Lincoln  Atkinson  (1865-1902). 
With  Illustrations.    Crown  octavo. 

Alexander  Viets  Griswold  Allen  (1841- 
1908).  With  Portrait  and  Illustrations. 
Small  octavo. 

LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND  CO. 

NEW  YORK,  LONDON,  BOMBAY,  AND  CALCUTTA 


EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 
1865-1902 


BY 


CHARLES   LEWIS   SLATTERY 

RECTOR  OF  GRACE  CHURCH  IN  NEW  YORK 


New  Impression 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND   CO 

FOURTH    AVE.    AND  30th   ST.,  NEW  YORK 

LONDON,    BOMBAY   AND   CALCUTTA 

«9»3 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
CHARLES  LEWIS  SLATTERY 


First  Edition,  February,  1904 
Reprinted,  April,  1904 
Reprinted,  June  1913 


PREFACE   TO    NEW    IMPRESSION 

'T'HIS  book  has  had  a  genial  reception,  for 
which  all  friends  of  Mr.  Atkinson  must 
be  grateful.  Had  he  lived,  he  would  have  been 
to-day  forty-eight  years  old,  and  many  readers 
of  this  chronicle  must  wonder  what  he  would 
have  put  into  these  last  eleven  years.  The 
appeal  of  his  life,  however,  remains  in  what  he 
was,  not  in  what  he  might  have  been,  and 
the  book  is  allowed  to  live  on  because  it  seems 
to  have  a  message  of  hope  for  young  men 
who  wonder  how  they  can  unite  a  glad  freedom 
with  a  high  ptirpose. 

C.  L.  S. 
Grace  Church  Rectory,  New  York 
23  May,  1913 


PREFACE 

TWO  of  Mr.  Atkinson's  superiors,  both  in 
years  and  in  office,  suggested  the  writing 
of  this  book.  They  found  in  his  friendship  such 
dash  and  charm,  such  power  and  help,  that  they 
wished  more  people  to  know  him;  they  believed, 
too,  that  he  had  methods  of  work  worthy  of 
record. 

Many  who  knew  and  loved  the  man  have 
come  to  my  aid.  Did  I  not  know  that  they 
prefer  less  public  recognition,  I  should  say  over 
their  names.  They  know  that  I  thank  them, 
and  they  will  see  for  themselves  how  much  the 
book  owes  to  their  kindness. 

Mr.  Atkinson  loved  frankness ;  therefore  the 
book  discloses,  so  far  as  his  friends  knew  it,  his 
inner  life.  But  we  shall  all  agree  that  the  best 
has  not  been  told. 

C.  L.  S. 

Faribault,  Minnesota, 
13  October,  1903. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTBK 

I.  A  New  England  Boyhood  . 

II.  A  Harvard  Student    . 

III.  A  Student  of  Theology     . 

IV.  Two  Years  in  Springfield 
V.  The  First  Year  in  Boston 

VI.  The  Second  Year  in  Boston 

VII.  The  Third  Year  in  Boston 

VIII.  The  Fourth  Year  in  Boston 

IX.  The  Fifth  Year  in  Boston 

X.  Thick  Darkness    . 

XI.  The  Last  Year  in  Boston  . 

XII.  The  Year  in  New  York 

XIII.  Deversorium  Viatoris  Hierosolymam  Pro 

FICISCENTIS 


PACB 

I 

13 

23 
45 
62 

74 
93 
105 
127 
141 
153 
170 

191 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

TO    FACE    PAGE 

Mr.  Atkinson  and  Three  Boys       ....      58 

On  the  Charles 58 

Doorway    of    the    Church    of   the    Ascension, 
Boston 72 

Clifton  Place,  Boston 88 

A  Corner  of  the  Study 88 

Edward  Lincoln  Atkinson  in  1897.    From  a  Sil- 
houette   118 

The  Church  of  the  Epiphany,  New  York   .        .172 


CHAPTER  I 

A  NEW  ENGLAND  BOYHOOD 

AMONG  the  early  settlers  in  Boston 
was  an  Englishman  from  Bury,  named 
Theodore  Atkinson.  His  son  John  was  born  in 
Boston  in  1636,  but,  upon  reaching  years  of 
discretion,  he  removed  to  Newbury.  John's 
grandson  Humphrey  was  married  to  Sarah 
Hale,  a  sister  of  the  chivalrous  Nathan,  and 
thereupon  removed  to  Buxton,  in  Maine. 
Humphrey's  grandson  Samuel  carried  the 
fortunes  of  the  family  to  Eaton,  in  New 
Hampshire,  where,  in  1825,  a  son  was  born 
to  him,  and  named  George.  George  Atkinson 
removed  to  Brookline,  in  Massachusetts,  where 
he  married  Eliza  Allen.  After  the  birth  of 
their  eldest  son  they  made  their  home  in 
Reading,  just  north  of  Boston,  and  there.  May 
23,  1865,  were  born  to  George  and  Eliza  At- 
kinson twins,  who  received  the  names  of  Fred 
and  Edward.     Because  it  was  a  time  when  a 


2  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

grateful  country  was  mindful  of  the  sacrifice 
of  the  President  of  the  Great  War,  Lincoln  was 
added  to  the  name  Edward. 

Edward  Lincoln  Atkinson  was,  therefore, 
of  the  ninth  generation  of  the  Atkinsons  in 
America.  He  was  fond  of  recalling  that  his 
ancestors,  though  never  living  in  large  places, 
had  always  counted  for  something  in  the  lives 
of  their  neighbors  ;  they  did  their  share  in  the 
Indian  wars  and  in  the  Revolution,  and  every- 
where people  depended  upon  their  integrity 
and  their  help. 

At  the  age  of  five  the  twins  entered  the 
public  schools  of  Reading.  They  were  insep- 
arable companions,  so  much  so  that  the  towns- 
people gave  them  one  name,  Fred-Nedder. 
Even  the  family  could  not  separate  their  inter- 
ests ;  for,  at  Christmas,  gifts  came  to  them,  not 
as  individuals  but  as  twins.  All  their  posses- 
sions were  joyfully  held  in  common.  In  tem- 
perament the  boys  were  quite  different,  thus 
supplementing  each  other :  Fred  inherited  his 
father's  firmness  and  decision ;  Ned,  his  moth- 
er's  quickness,  imagination  and  sympathy. 
Fred  was  the  conservative,  Ned  the  radical, 
and  even  as  children    each    appreciated  and 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  BOYHOOD  3 

admired  the  other's  qualities.  Their  eldest 
brother  was  eight  when  they  were  born ;  and 
the  two  younger  brothers  came  into  the  world, 
one  when  the  twins  had  reached  their  fourth 
year,  the  other  in  their  sixth  year.  The 
parents  felt  that  they  had  been  too  lenient 
with  their  first-born,  so  they  determined  to 
bring  up  the  twins  rigorously ;  but,  when  the 
two  youngest  came,  the  family  discipline  was 
again  relaxed.  Thus,  of  all  the  brothers,  the 
twins  alone  were  not  sent  to  dancing-school. 
They  always  protested  that  their  lot  had  there- 
fore been  a  hard  one  ;  but  the  wholesome  dis- 
cipline evidently  made  way  for  a  thoroughly 
delightful  boyhood.  **  I  was  one  of  five  broth- 
ers," Edward  once  remarked,  "  all  talkers,  and 
they  used  to  say  that  I  could  talk  faster  than 
any  of  them." 

Very  early  in  life  the  twins  decided  to  make 
collections  of  all  the  interesting  things  they 
could  lay  hands  on.  They  discussed  it,  agreed 
about  it,  shook  hands  solemnly  over  it,  and 
pledged  themselves  never  to  let  a  day  pass 
without  adding  something  to  their  museum. 
Their  mother  encouraged  their  enterprise  by 
giving  them  the  attic.    There  the  eager  visitor, 


4  EDWAJtD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

fortunate  enough  to  be  admitted,  found  a  care- 
fully tabulated  array  of  stamps,  coins,  woods, 
minerals,  eggs,  butterflies,  orchids  and  ferns. 
Later  they  earned  and  saved  money  to  buy 
books,  and  in  their  High  School  days  they  had 
a  laboratory  .in  this  same  attic  for  chemical  ex- 
periments, whereby  the  house  was  thrice  put 
into  a  blaze. 

In  Brookline  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Atkinson  had 
been  worshippers  in  St.  Paul's  Church,  but  on 
coming  to  Reading  they  identified  themselves 
with  the  ancient  parish  of  the  town,  which  was 
Congregational ;  since,  even  had  they  cared 
for  it,  there  was  no  Episcopal  Church  in  Read- 
ing. The  twins  were  expected  always  to  be 
at  church,  and  were  librarians  of  the  Sunday- 
school.  The  parson  was  an  excellent  man,  but 
very  dry.  Often  they  would  be  sent  to  church 
alone,  when,  instead  of  going  to  the  family 
pew,  they  would  go  to  the  gallery,  or  even, 
should  the  weather  be  fine,  sit  jovially  on  a 
tombstone  in  the  churchyard  hard  by.  But 
Fred-Nedder  were  too  well  known,  and  they 
were  invariably  reported. 

In  spite  of  the  rigorous  programme  mapped 
out  for  their  early  career,  the  twins  were  al- 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  BOYHOOD  5 

lowed  often  to  go  to  the  plays  at  the  Boston 
Museum,  because  good  New  England  people 
of  that  day  did  not  deem  the  Museum  a 
"  theatre."  This,  doubtless,  with  their  varied 
reading,  served  to  cultivate  their  native  imagi- 
nation. One  can  fancy  how,  before  the  play, 
they  would  prowl  among  the  dusty  wax  figures 
on  the  upper  floor,  doubtless  marvelling  that 
they  had  escaped  the  fate  of  the  grim  little 
Siamese  twins.  With  other  boys,  they  were 
fond  of  acting  out  Indian  and  other  stories  in 
the  woods,  and  Ned  was  preeminent  in  the 
invention  of  thrilling  scenes.  Nor  was  he 
altogether  guileless.  One  day  Freddie  discov- 
ered some  pink  mice  in  a  granary,  whereupon 
Neddie  devised  the  plan  of  dropping  the  little 
fellows  into  the  delivery  box  at  the  post-office. 
Thereafter  for  some  time  he  was  known  in 
Reading  as  "  Mousie."  Next  to  his  father's 
store  was  an  apothecary  shop.  The  cellars 
beneath  joined,  and  in  their  investigations 
one  day  the  twins  discovered  a  pile  of  brilliant 
almanacs;  these  they  confiscated  and  distrib- 
uted, despite  their  ancient  date,  at  every  front 
door  in  town.  It  was  jolly  to  watch  the  aged 
citizen  study  the  weather  prophecies  over  his 


6  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

spectacles,  and  then  to  witness  his  disgust 
when  the  date  was  discovered. 

To  the  end  of  his  life  Edward  never  lost  this 
whimsical  humor.  No  book  of  his  busiest 
years  delighted  him  so  much  as  Kenneth 
Grahame's  "  Golden  Age  "  ;  he  read  and  re- 
read it.  If  to  others  it  seemed  exaggerated, 
to  him  it  was  natural.  "  There,"  he  would 
say,  "  notice  Harold  !  Haven't  I  experienced 
the  agony  of  being  requested  to  be  a  dragon 
when  I  was  already  deep  in  the  rdle  of  a  Bos- 
ton swell !  Then  the  beguiling  appeals — the 
suggestion  that  the  dragon  might  be  scaly,  with 
red  eyes  and  a  curly  tail — and  breathing  real 
smoke  and  fire  !     Oh,  I  understand  it  all !  " 

In  the  High  School,  which  the  twins  entered 
at  thirteen,  Ned's  tastes  developed  quickly  for 
English  literature.  His  mother's  fondness  for 
good  books  and  her  ability  to  write  verses 
had,  no  doubt,  much  to  do  with  this;  and  in 
the  school  itself  a  Miss  Stinchfield,  who  taught 
literature  and  history,  imparted  to  him  her  own 
admirable  enthusiasm.  "  Westward  Ho  ! "  was 
a  favorite  ;  and  especially  "  Les  Mis^rables," 
which  fired  the  brothers'  ambition  to  read  all 
of  Victor  Hugo— a  feat  accomplished  in  their 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  BOYHOOD  7 

High  School  days.  They  also  bought  and 
read  through  Chambers's  Enclyclopaedia  of  Lit- 
erature. Three  large  volumes  of  the  British 
Poets — acquired  for  their  library — they  also 
read  from  beginning  to  end.  And,  in  common 
with  all  American  school  children,  they  were 
fond  of  Longfellow  and  Whittier.  Lamb's 
"  Essays  "  appealed  especially  to  Edward,  and 
had  a  distinct  influence  upon  his  personality. 
Macaulay  followed,  and  later  the  other  essay- 
ists. His  classmates  still  remember  the  origi- 
nality and  color  of  his  youthful  compositions, 
and  confess  that  they  always  listened  with 
peculiar  interest  when  his  themes  were  read. 
There  was  the  union  of  daring,  directness  and 
humor  that  characterized  his  later  speech. 

In  1882  the  two  brothers  graduated  from 
the  Reading  High  School  and  entered  the  Nor- 
mal School  at  Bridgewater.  Neither  of  them 
had  any  intention  of  becoming  a  teacher.  They 
simply  wished  to  go  away  to  school,  and  they 
happened  to  know  one  of  the  Bridgewater 
teachers.  It  was  a  rather  sombre  place  ;  and 
the  twins'  room,  attractively  furnished,  became 
the  centre  of  the  hall  life,  in  spite  of  their 
being  newcomers.     Finding  the   course   easy, 


8  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

they  used  their  superfluous  time  in  playing 
practical  jokes  on  the  staid  and  serious  stu- 
dents about  them.  These  pranks  were  harm- 
less enough ;  consisting  chiefly  of  putting 
several  pints  of  beans  in  odd  corners  of  Mr. 
Bean's  room,  and  a  large  quantity  of  peas  in 
Mr.  Pease's  room.  The  principal,  good  and 
somewhat  provincial,  was  scandalized  by  this 
unseemly  gayety  in  his  solemn  institution,  and 
virtually  expelled  the  twins  at  the  end  of  their 
first  year.  They  were  quite  ready  to  go,  but 
their  old  teacher  pleaded  their  cause,  and  the 
fall  of  1883  found  them  back  at  the  Bridge- 
water  Normal  School,  where  they  remained 
till  they  had  finished  their  four  years'  course. 

It  was  during  the  Bridgewater  days  that 
Edward  went  through  the  storm  and  stress 
period  of  his  religious  life.  Among  the  students 
was  a  man  five  years  older  than  Edward,  who 
had  done  much  liberal  reading ;  and,  since  he 
was  partially  an  invalid,  this  reading  had  made 
him  negative  and  pessimistic.  His  influence 
was  strong  with  Edward,  who  was  thus  driven 
dangerously  near  atheism.  There  was  also  a 
feeling  of  revulsion  against  the  Congregational 
Church   as   he   saw   it   in    Bridgewater.     The 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  BOYHOOD  9 

school  was  a  State  School,  but  since  the  princi- 
pal was  a  Congregationalist,  many  of  the  stu- 
dents went  to  the  Congregational  Church  to 
gain  favor  with  the  authorities.  There  were 
weekly  prayer  meetings  at  the  school,  which 
Edward  would  not  attend,  because  he  felt  the 
cant  of  some  who  led  them.  Added  to  this 
insincerity  here  and  there  among  the  students 
was  the  fierce  hardness  of  the  interpretations 
of  life  and  duty  as  the  Congregational  pulpit 
of  that  day  in  Bridgewater  understood  them. 
Naturally,  therefore,  the  more  independent 
students  fled  to  other  pastures.  Edward  be- 
gan in  his  second  year  to  go  to  the  Episcopal 
Church.  The  dignity  of  the  liturgical  service, 
the  reverence  and  simplicity  of  the  preacher — 
whom  he  liked — the  orderly  beauty  of  the 
building,  all  appealed  to  him.  His  old  faith 
came  back,  and  with  it  a  fervor  of  religious 
emotion  which,  for  the  time  being,  he  held 
back,  because  he  was  afraid  of  cant.  He  went 
to  these  services  more  and  more  regularly  till, 
in  the  last  year,  he  did  not  miss  a  Sunday  at 
Trinity  Church.  Toward  the  end  of  the  course 
he  even  consented  to  go  to  the  school  prayer 
meetings,   though   he   would   not   lead   them. 


10  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

The  shock  his  sensitive  nature  had  received 
from  insincere  religion,  used  for  policy,  was 
severe  enough  to  require  some  time  for  re- 
covery. 

It  was  in  these  Bridgewater  days  that 
romance  entered  his  life.  For  some  time  his 
admiration  and  affection  had  been  going  out 
to  a  good  and  noble  woman  somewhat  older 
than  himself.  With  her  maturer  judgment, 
though  fond  of  him,  she  knew  instinctively 
that  they  were  not  suited  for  each  other.  For 
he  was  whimsical  and  poetical,  and  she  was 
absolutely  matter-of-fact.  So  when  he  pro- 
posed, she  let  him  pass  very  gently,  by  sug- 
gesting that  she  would  give  him  a  year  to 
think  it  over,  and  if  he  proposed  again  after 
that  time,  she  would  consider  the  proposal. 
He  was  gloomy,  naturally,  for  a  time ;  but 
soon  he  was  laughing  to  himself,  because  he 
saw  clearly  at  last  that  the  Lord  never  meant 
him  to  marry  any  one  who  could  ask  him  to 
"think  it  over." 

He  did  not  have  enough  to  do  at  Bridge- 
water,  so  that  two  or  three  times  each  year  he 
was  profoundly  depressed.  He  was  always 
rather  frail,  and  he  had  some  stern  battles  with 


A   NEW  ENGLAND  BOYHOOD  II 

temptations  which  required  all  his  strength  of 
will ;  but  his  victory  was  quick  and  decisive. 
Possibly  he  might  have  spent  four  years  to 
better  advantage ;  but  certainly  the  Bridge- 
water  days  were  not  wasted.  His  enthusiasm 
for  history  and  English  literature  increased. 
Macaulay,  Addison  and  Taine  were  especially 
delightful  to  him.  And  he  often  gratefully 
told  how  Bridgewater  taught  him  the  topical 
method.  He  made  hundreds  of  syllabi,  dis- 
secting subjects  and  putting  facts  in  logical 
order.  It  brought  out  in  him  his  gift  as  a 
teacher.  Everything  he  learned  he  knew  how 
to  impart.  "  To  be  sure,"  he  would  say,  "  we 
analyzed  a  thing  about  to  death — but  we  made 
it  clear  and  logical." 

Intellectually  he  had  won  the  Valedictory, 
but  the  principal,  not  liking  his  unconven- 
tional ways,  passed  the  honor  over  to  his 
brother,  who  protested  that  the  honor  was  not 
his  and  he  did  not  desire  it.  But  Edward  was 
content ;  and,  to  make  peace,  his  brother  as- 
sumed the  r61e.  It  was  not  a  serious  matter 
to  either ;  for  they  were  men  now,  having  just 
attained  their  majority,  and  they  were  dream- 
ing how  they   could  go  to  Harvard  College. 


12  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

Genuine  obstacles  barred  their  path,  and  on 
these  their  attention  was  chiefly  bent. 

Being  men,  they  put  away  childish  things — 
among  others  their  elaborate  collections  in  the 
Reading  garret.  These  they  bestowed  with 
some  ceremony  upon  their  younger  brothers, 
who  promptly  sold  them ! 


CHAPTER  II 


A  HARVARD   STUDENT 


FOR  some  time  Fred  and  Edward  Atkinson 
had  been  looking  toward  Harvard  Col- 
lege. The  family  at  home  were  opposed  to 
their  dream,  because  some  Reading  boys  had 
recently  turned  out  badly  at  Harvard.  Never- 
theless, the  twins  bided  their  time  and  sought 
to  earn  a  little  money.  Hitherto,  during  Satur- 
days and  vacations,  they  had  taken  turns  keep- 
ing their  father's  books,  and  they  both  valued 
the  knowledge  of  business  thus  acquired.  But 
they  were  equipped  for  teaching,  and  Edward 
gave  his  name  to  an  agency  forthwith,  and 
shortly  was  elected  principal  of  the  High  and 
Grammar  School  at  Shirley.  Since  the  appoint- 
ment did  not  come  directly  through  the  agency, 
the  family  at  home,  sitting  as  it  were  in  con- 
clave, decided  that  no  fee  was  due ;  but  Ed- 
ward, with  a  scrupulous  anxiety  to   be   fair. 


14  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

even  to  a  fault,  paid  the  fee  in  full.  And  the 
agency  took  it. 

He  served  the  school  at  Shirley  until  Christ- 
mas. It  was  a  mixed  school,  and  he  taught 
seven  or  eight  branches.  At  once  the  children 
felt  the  impulse  of  his  ingenious  and  lively 
methods.  In  January  he  entered  upon  a  larger 
work  as  principal  of  the  Franklin  Grammar 
School  at  East  Weymouth,  where  he  had  under 
him  between  three  and  four  hundred  children. 
The  same  versatility  as  at  Shirley  was  conspic- 
uous here,  with  excellent  discipline  and  a 
peculiar  knack  for  reaching  boys.  He  made 
much  of  field  day;  and,  though  nothing  of  an 
athlete  himself,  fired  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
contestants.  He  was  a  revelation  to  many  of 
these  boys,  and  they  never  forgot  him.  They 
admired  him  as  a  teacher,  then  they  loved 
him. 

The  school  committee  made  every  effort  to 
retain  him,  but  his  face  was  set  toward  Harvard. 
His  mother  had  held  up  before  him  the  ideal 
of  the  ministry,  but  never  until  this  year  at 
East  Weymouth  did  he  take  her  ambition  seri- 
ously. He  was  walking  down  the  street  one 
day  with  a  friend,  when  the  friend  pointed  to  a 


A  HARVARD   STUDENT  1 5 

man  across  the  road  and  said,  "  That's  Mr. ; 


his  boy  is  in  your  school."  "  Is  he  ?  "  said 
Atkinson,  and  darted  across  the  street.  He 
explained  to  the  astonished  and  pleased  father 
who  he  was  and  how  much  he  thought  of  his 
boy.  When  he  came  back  his  friend  exclaimed, 
"You  ought  to  be  a  clergyman:  that's  the 
way  clergymen  behave."  He  confessed  long 
afterward  that  it  was  the  first  real  intimation 
that  he  was  intended  for  the  ministry  of  the 
Church. 

In  the  course  of  the  summer  of  1887  Fred 
announced  to  the  family — for  the  Atkinson 
family  always  sat  in  council  upon  important 
matters — that  he  must  go  to  Harvard.  Ed- 
ward, thinking  the  way  for  his  brother  could 
be  made  easier,  said  that  he  would  give  up 
going.  But,  when  the  prejudices  of  the  par- 
ents were  so  far  allayed  as  to  consent,  it  was 
decided  that  the  beloved  Edward  must  go 
with  his  brother.  In  the  fall  of  1887  they  were 
enrolled  as  special  students  in  the  Lawrence 
Scientific  School,  but  in  the  fall  of  1889  they 
were  enrolled  as  Seniors  in  Harvard  College. 
They  therefore  completed  the  four  years' 
course  in  three  years. 


1 6  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

Edward  aimed  in  choosing  his  Harvard 
courses  to  divide  them  equally  between  those 
in  which  he  was  strong  and  those  in  which  he 
was  weak.  For  this  reason  he  took  a  good 
deal  of  science,  for  which  he  had  been  well 
drilled.  Among  his  papers  is  still  a  laboratory 
note-book  of  a  course  in  biology.  Professor 
Farlow  declared  at  the  time  that  it  was  the 
best  laboratory  note-book  ever  submitted  at 
the  end  of  a  Harvard  course.  One  can  well 
believe  it  from  a  glance  at  its  keenly  accurate 
original  drawings  and  from  reading  a  page  or 
so  of  the  concise  and  illuminating  comment. 

Professor  Briggs,  both  as  teacher  and  as 
man,  won  his  affectionate  admiration.  These 
were  days  when  Mr.  Briggs  conducted  his 
justly  famous  courses  in  English  composition  ; 
reading  and  criticising  the  themes  of  many 
men  with  a  rare  thoroughness,  and  in  his 
public  lectures  and  criticism  at  once  entertain- 
ing and  edifying  his  huge  classes.  Professor 
Royce,  in  Philosophy,  and  Professor  Charles 
Eliot  Norton,  in  the  Fine  Arts,  also  won  his  en- 
thusiastic devotion.  The  thoroughness  and 
candor  of  the  philosophy  taught  at  Harvard 
perceptibly  deepened  his  religious  sense,  giving 


A  HARVARD  STUDENT  1/ 

him  a  reverence  and  love  of  the  truth  at  any 
cost.  And  the  growth  of  the  world's  idea  of 
the  beautiful  as  developed  in  Mr.  Norton's 
lectures  on  Architecture  quickened  his  taste 
and  judgment.  But  perhaps  the  man  in 
Harvard  who  most  impressed  him  was  Pro- 
fessor William  James.  He  was  profoundly 
moved  by  his  teaching.  He  was  fond  of  telling 
how  one  day  Mr.  James  was  going  forward  in 
a  brilliant  demonstration  in  psychology,  illus- 
trating his  points,  so  far  as  he  could,  on  the 
blackboard,  when  suddenly  he  stopped  and 
confessed  that  he  understood  no  more.  A 
lesser  man  would  have  smoothed  over  the  end 
and  left  his  pupils  in  the  haze.  The  absolute 
frankness,  gentleness  and  candor  of  this  man 
won  Atkinson,  heart  and  soul.  The  last  sum- 
mer in  college  he  was  a  tutor  of  Mr.  James's 
young  sons  at  Chocorua ;  then  the  admiration 
and  love  of  the  whole  James  family  went  out 
to  Atkinson.  "  This  summer,"  writes  Mr. 
James,  "  I  passed  in  Europe.  On  my  return, 
I  found  that  both  my  wife  and  the  boys,  of 
whom  the  younger  was  then  only  five  years 
old,  idolized  him.  The  boys  followed  him 
about  wherever  he  went,  and  the  picture  most 


1 8  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

vividly  imprinted  on  my  mind,  of  that  week,  is 
that  of  Atkinson  lying  on  the  grass  before 
the  house  with  the  two  boys  sitting  on  his 
stomach."  It  was  during  this  summer  that 
his  long  and  deep  friendship  began  with  Ed- 
ward Holton  James,  Professor  James's  nephew, 
who  recalls  that  of  a  Sunday  he  would  steal 
away  to  the  little  Episcopal  church  in  a  neigh- 
boring village.  But  his  mind  was  not  yet 
decided  on  a  vocation,  for  he  talked  with  Mrs. 
James  about  becoming  a  physician  :  it  seemed 
to  him  a  great  way  to  help  people. 

Of  what  in  college  is  called  social  life  in  the 
technical  sense  he  had  nothing.  None  of  the 
great  clubs  knew  of  his  existence.  Coming 
from  no  great  preparatory  school,  having  no 
friends  among  the  older  undergraduates,  there 
was  no  way  of  letting  the  college  world  know 
of  what  a  unique  stamp  he  was.  But  he  drew 
to  him  individuals,  by  his  unconscious  charm, 
and  held  them  forever  as  friends.  Buoyant  or 
depressed,  as  the  great  games  went ;  a  quick- 
witted student ;  a  famous  man  for  taking 
lecture  notes  and  generous  in  lending  them  at 
examination  times ;  more  or  less  of  a  wag,  but 
passing  easily  to  the  serious  and  the  intense ; 


A   HARVARD   STUDENT  I9 

ready  to  go  with  a  friend  to  Boston  for  a  play 
or  a  concert ;  and  enthusiastic  all  the  time — he 
made  the  life  and  delight  of  any  circle  of 
which  he  was  a  part. 

When  the  brothers  first  came  to  Cambridge, 
they  went  for  a  few  Sunday  mornings  to  one 
of  the  Congregational  churches,  but  finding  the 
preacher,  as  they  said,  "  too  teary,"  they  went 
more  and  more  frequently  to  St.  John's 
Chapel.  After  his  brother  was  engaged  and 
spent  his  Sundays  several  towns  away  from 
Cambridge,  Edward  went  regularly  to  St. 
John's.  It  was  more  and  more  evident  that 
his  heart  was  fixed.  Sunday  evenings  he  was 
wont  to  go  to  the  college  chapel,  especially 
if  the  preacher  was  one  who  attracted  him. 
Here  he  came  under  the  spell  of  Phillips 
Brooks,  who  was  in  residence  for  six  weeks 
each  of  the  years  Edward  was  in  college ;  and 
at  the  preacher's  study  in  Wadsworth  House 
he  called  upon  him.  What  they  talked  about 
no  one  living  knows ;  but,  whatever  it  was,  it 
made  its  mark  upon  Atkinson's  life. 

The  first  week  in  February,  1890,  the 
brothers  were  summoned  home,  because  their 
mother,    now     for     many   years    an    invalid, 


20  EDIVAUD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

seemed  to  be  fading  away.  Edward,  among 
the  sons,  had  with  the  vigor  of  a  man  the 
gentleness  of  a  woman.  It  was  natural  then 
that,  when  the  end  came  on  the  twelfth  of 
February,  she  was  resting  in  Edward's  arms. 
The  twenty-ninth  day  of  April — within  three 
months — the  devoted  husband  followed  his 
wife :  it  was  simply  the  story  of  a  broken 
heart.  Before  he  died  he  made  Edward  the 
executor  of  his  estate  and  guardian  for  his  two 
younger  sons.  For  three  years  Edward  had 
been  the  acknowledged  centre  of  the  house- 
hold. His  absolute  unselfishness,  in  a  house- 
hold where  love  reigned,  gave  him  the  lion's 
share  of  love ;  and  no  one  questioned  his  right 
to  rule  the  stricken  family.  His  business 
training  under  his  father  made  his  head  equal 
to  his  heart,  and  good  judgment  marked  the 
fulfilling  of  his  trust. 

It  was  hard,  this  last  spring  in  college,  to 
come  back  to  the  routine.  But  finding,  on  his 
return  from  his  mother's  funeral,  that  he  was 
behind  in  some  intricate  philosophical  work, 
he  read  a  large  amount  of  Spinoza  in  the  three 
days  left  before  the  examination,  giving  him- 
self up  to  it  with  such  absolute  concentration 


A   HARVARD  STUDENT  21 

that  he  made  an  unusually  brilliant  account  of 
it  in  Mr.  Royce's  examination.  In  June  he 
graduated  magna  cum  laude^  and  with  honor- 
able mention  in  Natural  History,  Chemistry, 
English  Composition  and  Philosophy.  He 
was  worn  to  a  shadow,  and  his  heart  was  near 
breaking  ;  but  hard  work  saved  him. 

His  father  to  the  last  had  regretted  that 
Edward  was  still  undecided  about  his  vocation. 
Edward  knew  that  he  could  teach ;  he  re- 
spected the  life  of  the  physician  ;  but  evidently 
his  mother's  ambition  for  him  was  growing 
steadily  to  be  his  own.  Her  death  may  have 
fixed  it — only  he  felt  his  unworthiness :  he 
hesitated  to  enter  a  life  for  which  he  had  such 
reverence. 

During  the  summer  of  1890  (August  27)  his 
brother  Fred  was  married,  and  then  sailed  for 
Germany,  where  he  was  to  study  Pedagogy 
under  the  German  masters.  The  marriage 
brought  him  a  sister  to  whom  he  was  devoted  ; 
but  it  was  the  first  separation  of  the  insepa- 
rable twins.  His  brother  was  his  first  love  to 
the  end ;  when  he  wrote  of  his  love  for  him, 
he  spoke  "  of  its  years  of  comfort  and  joy, 
how  it  had  helped  him  over  many  a  hardship 


22  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

and  through  many  a  temptation  and  up  many 
a  height."  The  old  love  on  both  sides  was  as 
deep  as  ever  ;  but  the  separation  was  hard  for 
both.  For  Edward  it  was  almost  like  another 
life  taken  from  the  dear  old  home. 

During  this  summer  of  tragic  thoughts, 
Atkinson  surrendered  without  condition  to  his 
mother's  hope  for  him,  and  prepared  to  enter 
the  ministry  of  the  Church. 


CHAPTER  III 

A    STUDENT    OF     THEOLOGY 

IN  the  fall  of  1890  Atkinson  entered  the 
Episcopal  Theological  School  in  Cam- 
bridge. Though  within  five  minutes'  walk  of 
the  old  College  Yard,  he  felt  himself  miles 
away,  in  a  new  and  more  radiant  climate.  He 
loved  the  quietness  of  the  place,  with  its  pic- 
turesque group  of  stone  buildings,  with  its 
beautiful  Gothic  chapel,  its  old  trees,  its  wide 
grass-plots.  American  that  he  was,  he  liked 
to  be  learning  about  the  Church  beneath  the 
shadow  of  Washington's  headquarters  on  one 
side,  and  the  ancient  elm  under  which  Wash- 
ington took  command  of  the  Continental  army, 
a  few  steps  away,  on  the  other.  But  the  free, 
high-spirited  life  within  the  walls,  during  the 
early  nineties,  was  even  better  than  this  out- 
ward symbol.  The  School  at  this  time  ranged 
in  number  from  forty  to  fifty  men — a  number 


24  ED  WARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

sufficiently  small  to  allow  the  students  to  come 
together  not  only  in  the  Refectory,  but  in  the 
Reading  Room,  which  after  dinner  was  apt  to 
be  a  meeting  point  for  gay  and  general  talk. 
A  Harvard  man  received  in  this  way  some  of 
the  delight  of  a  small  college.  And  since,  in 
spite  of  various  temperaments  and  various 
degrees  of  training  and  ability,  all  the  men  had 
the  same  high  purpose,  there  was  a  sense  of 
comradeship  which  made  the  School  one  pleas- 
ant family.  To  this  family  spirit  the  faculty, 
who  lived  hard  by,  contributed.  The  Dean, 
Dr.  William  Lawrence,  was  a  capital  tennis- 
player  and  challenged  the  students  to  many  a 
game  ;  moreover,  he  was  always  dispensing  a 
charming  hospitality  in  his  home,  especially 
glad,  in  this  way,  to  bring  the  students  into 
personal  contact  with  such  distinguished  guests 
as  Henry  Drummond,  Mr.  Roosevelt  or  the 
Lord  Bishop  of  Derry,  Dr.  Alexander.  The 
other  professors  were  also  the  kindest  of 
friends  and  advisers.  But  it  was  in  their 
class-rooms,  to  Atkinson's  mind,  that  they  all 
showed  their  most  gracious  spirit.  Recogniz- 
ing their  men  as  mature,  trained  students,  they 
assumed  the  attitude  simply   of  students  of 


A    STUDENT  OF   THEOLOGY  25 

wider  experience,  guiding  the  men  and  work- 
ing with  them. 


The  work  of  the  School  had  just  been  so 
arranged  that,  though  most  of  the  courses  ran 
through  the  three  years,  the  main  emphasis 
during  the  Junior  year  was  laid  on  Hebrew 
and  New  Testament  exegesis;  the  Middle 
year,  on  Church  History;  the  Senior  year,  on 
Theology  and  Homiletics.  Atkinson  never 
revelled  in  languages,  and  Hebrew  was  pain 
and  grief  to  him;  but  he  bowed  his  neck  and 
took  up  the  burden.  The  exegesis  of  the  New 
Testament  offered  a  relief.  Professor  Nash, 
with  daring  idioms,  made  the  New  Testament 
quiver  with  meaning ;  and,  being  a  very  Tro- 
jan for  work,  expected  from  his  class  a  similar 
industry.  He  assigned  appalling  lists  of  books 
to  be  read  forthwith,  and  demanded  nine  theses 
in  a  single  year.  Atkinson  leaped  to  the  task 
with  joy.  He  came  with  high  thoughts  to  the 
preparation  for  the  ministry,  and  it  was  good 
on  the  threshold  to  be  told  to  sit  down  and  to 
read,  among  books  of  dry  technicalities,  many 
lives  of  Christ.     These  he  read  with  his  friend 


26  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

Carroll,  pausing  constantly  to  read  again  a  good 
paragraph  and  to  talk  about  it.  Browning,  at 
such  a  moment,  was  apt  to  be  brought  in  to  en- 
force an  intricate  spiritual  meaning :  Atkinson 
was  fond  of  showing  the  religion  and  theology 
in  the  poets,  going  to  them  again  and  again  for 
the  subtle  expression  of  his  intimations. 

This  Junior  year  at  the  Theological  School 
was  a  year  of  high  tension.  He  worked  hard  ; 
and  the  excitement  of  finding  his  work  for  life, 
and  finding  it  enticing,  told  upon  his  sensitive 
system.  One  morning,  during  the  final  ex- 
aminations, Carroll  entered  his  room  to  find  that 
he  had  fainted.  Fortunately  he  had  already 
planned  to  go  abroad  for  the  summer ;  and  the 
sea  voyage  immediately  restored  him. 

II 

His  travelling  companion  for  this  summer  of 
1 891  was  his  old  friend  E.  D.  Whitford.  On 
the  sixth  day  out  the  sailors  began  to  make 
ready  for  a  storm.  "  Going  to  have  a  storm  ?  " 
asked  some  one.  "  Hope  we  shall,"  cried  At- 
kinson ;  "  I  want  to  see  one."  A  severe  old 
rady,  who  knew  him  to  be  a  theological  stu- 
dent, called  him  to  her  and  upbraided  him  for 


A   STUDENT  OF  THEOLOGY  2/ 

tempting  Providence :  *'  You  must  pray  that 
it  be  diverted,"  she  said  sternly.  He  replied 
gently  that  he  did  not  believe  in  asking  God 
to  change  the  weather.  When,  to  Atkinson's 
delight,  the  storm  came,  the  old  lady  in  her 
misery  vehemently  put  all  the  blame  on  him. 

The  summer  demonstrated  where  his  chief 
interests  were.  For  picture  galleries  he  cared 
little  :  he  gazed  intently  upon  the  few  pictures 
he  had  decided  to  see  in  each  gallery,  and 
quickly  passed  the  rest.  He  longed  to  be  on 
the  streets,  seeing  the  people.  At  Amsterdam 
the  German  Emperor  was  pausing  on  his  way 
to  England,  and  all  Holland  in  its  Dutchiest 
clothes  came  in  from  the  highways  and  by- 
ways to  stare.  The  little  Wilhelmina,  then  a 
mere  child,  came  out  on  a  balcony  and  threw 
kisses  to  the  crowd.  Atkinson  was  charmed  with 
her,  but  with  her  gay,  rollicking  subjects  he  was 
charmed  even  more.  He  noticed  everything, 
and  kept  up  a  rattling  fire  of  amusing  comment. 
The  quaint  and  grewsome  carvings  in  the 
churches  interested  him ;  and  the  scenery, 
especially  in  Switzerland  and  around  Naples. 
But  even  in  Switzerland,  coming  one  day  to  a 
tiny  schoolhouse,  he  put  his  head  unceremoni- 


28  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

ously  into  the  open  door,  and  forgot  mountains 
and  lakes  in  his  eagerness  to  see  how  Swiss  boys 
learned  their  lessons.  It  was  in  Switzerland, 
too,  (at  Geneva,  to  be  exact,)  that  one  morning 
before  breakfast  he  ran  into  a  milkman.  The 
man  was  sitting  cosily  in  his  cart,  driving  a 
team  consisting  of  his  wife  and  a  big  dog.  The 
man  waved  his  whip,  touching  with  it,  now  the 
dog,  now  the  woman,  Atkinson,  breakfastless 
as  he  was,  followed  the  team  for  a  mile : 
"  There,"  he  exclaimed,  breathless  with  laugh- 
ter, "  when  I  marry,  I  marry  a  European — so 
useful,  you  know." 

In  Venice  they  fell  in  with  a  party  of  col- 
lege people,  with  whom  they  went  through 
Italy.  In  the  Uffizi  Gallery  in  Florence  one 
of  the  girls,  upon  discovering  a  bust  of  Savo- 
narola, cried  in  triumph,  "Come,  see  Mr.  Atkin- 
son !  "  Atkinson  made  himself  merry  over  the 
incident,  and  at  once  bought  a  tiny  marble 
copy,  which  always  stood  on  his  bookcase. 
He  was  full  of  sentiment  and  sympathy  these 
Italian  days :  as  when,  in  Rome,  his  pocket  was 
picked  in  a  church  at  a  baptism,  he  made  light 
of  the  missing  thirty  dollars,  but  groaned  over 
a  trifling  keepsake  which  had  gone  with  it;  and 


A   STUDENT  OF   THEOLOGY  29 

he  allowed  no  one  to  make  disparaging  remarks 
about  Roman  religion.  However,  with  all  his 
respect  for  the  piety  of  the  humble,  he  was 
disgusted  with  the  hypocrisy  of  the  priests.  In 
the  catacombs  he  picked  up  a  small  bone,  and 
when  he  showed  it  to  the  young  woman  of 
Savonarola  fame,  she  asked  for  it.  So  he  gave 
it  to  her.  Late  that  evening,  Atkinson  and 
Whitford  heard  a  timid  tap  at  their  door ;  the 
girl's  mother  returned  the  bone,  which  she  had 
just  discovered — she  could  not  think  of  spend- 
ing a  night  with  it.  The  next  morning  she  and 
Atkinson,  beginning  with  the  bone,  went  on  to 
talk  of  immortality.  So  he  was  wont,  naturally, 
simply,  to  pass  from  little  things  to  great — 
even  on  a  summer  holiday. 

Any  place  with  historic  associations  brought 
from  him  a  flood  of  entertaining  anecdote  ; 
his  wide  general  reading  made  him  a  remark- 
able travelling  companion.  Thus  in  London 
the  British  Museum  bored  him,  but  the  Tower, 
with  all  its  memories,  was  thrilling.  So,  too, 
at  Eton  he  spent  his  time  spelling  out  the 
names  carved  on  the  benches  and  chatting 
about  the  Iron  Duke.  But  even  London  with 
all  its  past  could  not  make  him  forgetful  of 


30  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

the  present.  The  last  afternoon  there,  he  had 
planned  to  call  upon  Mr.  Henry  James,  to 
whom  he  had  a  letter ;  but  he  finally  decided 
that  he  must  go,  instead,  to  Whitechapel  and 
stand  on  a  corner  for  hours  to  see  the  poor 
people  go  by.  In  Ireland,  also,  just  as  they 
were  about  to  sail,  he  was  still  intent  upon 
seeing  how  the  lowest  lived ;  accordingly,  he 
made  his  way  to  a  hovel  where  children,  hens, 
pigs  and  dogs  all  lived  in  the  same  room.  The 
woman  whose  all  this  was,  pressed  upon  him  a 
little  mountain  dew  (goat's  milk  and  whiskey), 
but  even  his  courtesy  could  not  bring  his  lips 
to  the  soiled  brew.  To  show  his  appreciation 
he  gave  her  a  sixpence,  which  she  promptly 
returned  with  the  remark  that  he  must  have 
made  a  mistake :  it  was  silver,  she  said — no 
one  ever  before  had  given  her  silver.  Of 
course  he  bade  her  keep  it :  it  was  like  him  to 
be  the  most  generous  man  that  came  that 
way. 

Among  strangers  as  he  was,  he  made  friends 
everywhere.  On  the  homeward  steamer  was 
an  old  man  who  wore  a  shawl,  and  who  never 
left  his  reading  to  speak  to  any  one.  At  the 
concert  toward  the  end  of  the  vogage,  it  was 


A   STUDENT  OF  THEOLOGY  3 1 

suggested  that  the  representatives  of  the 
various  colleges  give  their  college  yells.  The 
four  young  Harvard  men  did  their  loudest ; 
and  with  the  first  peal,  the  old  man  of  the 
shawl  sprang  from  his  corner.  "  Here,"  he 
cried,  "  I'm  in  that  "  ;  and  he  cheered  till  the 
tears  ran  down  his  cheeks.  He  proved  to  be 
a  professor  in  Johns  Hopkins;  and  he  and 
Atkinson,  with  a  common  loyalty  to  Harvard, 
became  fast  friends  in  the  one  day  left  of  the 
voyage.  This  was  characteristic.  People  tell 
to-day  of  meeting  in  odd  corners  of  the  earth 
some  stranger  who  says  :  "  Atkinson !  Oh,  I 
had  a  talk  with  that  man  once — it  was  only 
in  passing,  but  someway,  ever  since,  I  have 
counted  him  a  friend." 

Ill 

Atkinson  took  up  the  Middle  year  of  the 
Theological  School  with  increased  interest. 
The  students  were  all  looking  forward  to  the 
consecration  of  Phillips  Brooks  as  Bishop  of 
Massachusetts.  In  the  School  were  repre- 
sented all  phases  of  Churchmanship,  but, 
regardless  of  Churchmanship,  the  men  were  all 
Mr.  Brooks's  ardent  disciples.     For  the  last 


32  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

year  Atkinson  had  walked  to  Trinity  Church 
nearly  every  Sunday ;  he  was  also  regularly 
at  the  noon  services  at  St.  Paul's,  the  Mondays 
of  Lent,  when  the  great  preacher  surpassed 
himself  in  majesty  and  persuasion.  Mr.  Brooks 
had  been  a  constant  visitor  at  the  School,  and 
by  informal  talks  to  the  students  had  imparted 
somewhat  of  his  own  large  spirit.  They  had 
all  been  eager  spectators  at  his  election,  and 
now,  clad  in  academic  gowns,  they  led  the 
long  procession  of  clergy  and  bishops  into 
Trinity  Church  the  morning  of  his  consecra- 
tion. Atkinson  never  forgot  the  man's  face, 
as,  at  the  preacher's  word,  he  rose  from  the 
seated  mass  of  humanity,  and  stood  in  reverent 
dignity  to  receive  the  charge  from  his  old 
schoolmate.  Bishop  Henry  Potter.  His  serious 
and  noble  face  became  as  the  face  of  an  angel. 
One  of  the  first  tasks  which  the  new  Bishop 
set  himself  was  to  come  to  Cambridge  to  see 
each  of  his  candidates  individually.  He  in- 
sisted on  the  quarterly  report.  "  It  is  as  dis- 
agreeable for  me  to  write  about  myself,"  At- 
kinson said  to  him  in  his  first  reports,  "  as  it  is 
for  some  people  to  touch  velvet.  I  could  not 
overcome  my  hesitation  now  if  the  Dean  had 


A   STUDENT  OF  THEOLOGY  33 

not  told  us  that  the  canonical  command  was 
not,  as  I  had  been  led  to  think,  a  dead  letter. 
I  do  not  mean  this  to  sound  disrespectful.  I 
have  very  deep  affection  for  my  Bishop,  and 
every  day  that  affection  is  finding  some  ex- 
pression. I  should  like  to  go  to  any  man 
with  my  hopes  and  enthusiasms,  but  I  do  not 
know  how  to  make  them  seem  large  enough 
to  be  of  interest  to  any  one  so  busy  as  your- 
self. 

"  I  find  my  work  here  extremely  inspiring. 
I  think  I  am  keeping  up  to  the  average,  al- 
though the  standard  is  high  and  there  are 
many  temptations  (to  which  I  fear  I  yield 
sometimes)  to  get  interested  in  some  subjects 
to  the  exclusion  of  others.  I  am  poor  in 
Greek,  because  I  took  none  in  college,  and  be- 
cause I  have  a  linguistic  hollow  instead  of  a 
bump  in  my  cranium.  It  goes  without  further 
remark  that  I  am  also  weak  in  Hebrew.  .  .  . 

"  When  I  get  out  I  want  to  appeal  to  just 
such  men  as  just  such  fellows  as  I  am  would 
make  if  they  did  not  become  ministers." 

Added  to  the  joy  of  having  so  great  a  Bishop 
was  the  joy  which  the  School  itself  brought 
this  second  year.  Dr.  Steenstra,  though  the 
3 


34  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

senior  professor,  was  reading  every  new  book 
to  get  the  last  word  for  his  department.  At- 
kinson, with  all  others,  felt  the  rugged  hon- 
esty and  power  of  this  profound  student,  and 
learned  not  only  Old  Testament  Interpreta- 
tion, but  a  great  lesson  in  sincerity.  Atkinson 
now  first  sat  under  the  teaching  of  Dr.  Allen. 
In  common  with  many  another  who  had  al- 
ready been  taught  by  recognized  masters, 
Atkinson  felt  that  Dr.  Allen  was  the  most  in- 
spiring teacher  he  ever  had  known.  Men 
went  to  his  lecture  room  with  the  facts  which 
they  had  read ;  they  came  away  with  the 
meaning  of  the  facts,  and,  day  by  day,  they 
felt  the  majesty  of  God's  purpose  working 
itself  out  with  irresistible  strength  in  human 
history.  Not  the  least  delightful  aspect  of 
Dr.  Allen's  courses  were  the  informal  Tuesday 
evening  seminars,  when  he  met  the  class  in  the 
reading  room  of  Lawrence  Hall.  Three  men 
ordinarily  read  papers,  to  which  the  master 
gave  such  attention  as  was  at  once  encour- 
aging and  humiliating.  He  frequently  inter- 
rupted the  reader  with  illuminating  and  appre- 
ciative comment,  and  always  at  the  end  of  a 
paper  he  would  talk,  bringing  to  bear  on  the 


A   STUDENT  OF   THEOLOGY  35 

subject  all  sorts  of  interesting  experience  and 
knowledge.  Men  who  perhaps  never  had 
known  what  scholarship  was,  learned  it  at  last 
in  Dr.  Allen's  seminars. 

Atkinson  was  often  profoundly  moved  by- 
notable  men  in  the  Church  who  came  to  ad- 
dress the  School.  "  Sometimes,"  he  wrote  to 
the  Bishop  in  one  of  his  canonical  letters, 
•'  when  an  eloquent  man  comes  along  I  have 
hard  work  to  resist  following  him.  The  pros- 
pect of  a  year's  study  in  Spanish  only  kept  me 
out  of  Mr.  Kinsolving's  train."  Bishop  Clark 
always  delighted  Atkinson,  especially  when, 
one  night,  sitting  solemnly  behind  the  table  in 
the  Reading  Room  he  told  of  the  estimable 
woman  in  Fall  River  who  did  not  object  to 
oysters  in  general,  but  who  did  hate  to  see  her 
minister  eat  them.  He  was  illustrating  expe- 
dient concessions  to  public  opinion. 

Atkinson  had  a  genius  for  friendship,  and 
each  year,  as  the  School  changed  or  increased, 
he  won  new  friends.  He  liked  to  install  a  visi- 
tor in  one  end  of  his  big  window  seat,  while 
he  sat  in  the  other  end  ;  and  there,  in  the  light 
of  the  sun  and  of  each  other's  faces,  they  talked 
of  life  and  poetry  and  work.     Or,  of  a  late 


36  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

afternoon,  he  would  be  found  walking  with  a 
crony  through  some  pleasant  lane  in  the  out- 
skirts of  Cambridge.  Or,  again,  after  Phillips 
Brooks's  noon  sermons  at  St.  Paul's,  he  would 
stay  in  Boston  for  luncheon,  that  with  a  single 
friend  he  might  go  over  the  words  just  spoken. 
It  was  astonishing  how  quickly  one  came  to 
vital  subjects  with  him. 

The  summer  of  1892  he  spent  in  New  Hamp- 
shire. It  was  characteristic  that  he  carried 
with  him  forty  volumes  as  his  summer  stint  of 
work  and  play.  "  Would  your  Grandeur,"  he 
wrote  to  W.  M.  Gilbert, "  like  to  know  what 
his  Littleness  has  been  reading  of  late  ?  Church's 
'Oxford  Movement,'  Newman's  'Apologia,' 
Tulloch's  '  Religious  Thought  in  the  Nine- 
teenth Century,'  Bradley's  '  Dean  Stanley,' 
Allen's  'Jonathan  Edwards,'  McConnell's 
'American  Church.'  This  has  been  intensely 
interesting  reading.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think 
of  Newman  and  the  Oxford  men — when  I  see 
you. 

"  I  have  been  having  a  fine  time  since  I  wrote 
you,  wandering  up  and  down  the  land  visiting 
my  relatives  to  the  third  and  fourth  genera- 
tion.    I  have  at  last  reached  one  of  the  most 


A   STUDENT  OF   THEOLOGY 


37 


beautiful  spots  in  the  White  Mountains  :  scores 
of  clear  blue  lakes,  range  upon  range  of  moun- 
tains and  a  delightful  valley — these  are  con- 
stantly in  my  field  of  vision.  I  spend  my  time 
reading  and  looking  off ;  that  is,  when  I  am  not 
fishing,  bathing,  berrying,  mountain-climbing, 
etc.,  etc.  There  are  some  drawbacks,  however, 
to  this  Eden.  There  is  a  snake  in  Paradise. 
Rank  Republicanism  runs  rampant.  Harrison 
and  haying  are  the  only  topics  of  conversation. 
As  I  know  more  about  the  latter,  I  always 
choose  it  when  I  run  up  against  the  natives 
and  have  to  talk.  The  religion  is  even  worse 
than  the  politics.  It  is  called  Baptist,  and  is 
divided  like  Gaul  into  three  parts :  Freewill, 
Calvinist  and  Hobbsite.  The  last  is  a  local 
variety  which  is  only  waiting  the  death  of  old 
Hobbs  himself  (now  over  seventy)  to  become 
extinct. 

"  I  see  symptoms  of  something  like  a  chronic 
disease  which  may  turn  out  to  be  emptia  pocket- 
bookia.  If  things  grow  worse,  I  shall  consult  an 
authority,  and  I  shall  let  you  know  the  result." 

These  last  words  are  in  explanation  of  no 
visit  to  Gilbert  for  that  year.  The  disease  did 
become  chronic,  because  his  lavish  sympathy 


38  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

and  generosity  never  allowed  him  to  keep 
money.  By  the  time  he  left  the  School  he  had 
nothing  left.  He  had  spent  about  fourteen 
hundred  a  year  during  his  education,  and  so 
used  up  his  capital.  He  was  not  troubled,  be- 
cause no  one  was  dependent  upon  him,  and  he 
did  not  care  to  save  anything.  He  kept  his 
accounts  with  accurate  neatness,  and  knew  ex- 
actly what  he  was  doing.  His  capital  was  to 
be  a  library  and  his  education. 

IV 

The  last  year  at  the  Theological  School  was 
full  of  life  for  Atkinson.  To  Gilbert,  who  was 
of  the  previous  class  and  who  was  now  at  work 
in  a  small  New  York  village,  he  wrote,  on  the 
29th  of  November  : 

"  News,  gossip,  rumor,  etc.,  etc.     i.  My  first 

sermon  in  the  chapel  went.     2.  has  been 

here:  corrected  my  pronunciation  and  re- 
proved me  four  times  every  minute  during  his 
entire  visit — which  lasted  overnight.     3.  The 

Dean's  sick :  is  making  a  scientific  assault 

on  the  Refectory — and  the  Dean   is  sick.    4. 

sits  at  my  right  hand  at  the  table.     He 

talks;  I  eat.     ...     10.   I  put  $150.0x3  into 


A   STUDENT  OF  THEOLOGY  39 

books  lately.  11.  went  back  on  his  col- 
lege bill  ;  I  as  bondsman  had  the  privilege  of 
paying  it.  .  .  .  19.  Dr.  Allen  is  better, 
gentler,  sweeter  than  ever.  20.  The  Bishop's 
Matriculation  Sermon  was  the  finest  yet.  .  .  . 
22.  Two  very  revolutionary  and  hopeful  things 
in  the  School :  one  is  a  socialistic  club  called 
Our  Neighbor  Club,  composed  of  ten  or  twelve 
choice  spirits,  for  discussion  of  city,  social  and 
parochial  problems ;  the  other,  mirabile  dictu, 
is  a  Prayer  Meeting  in  Gray  Memorial  Room 
once  a  week.  The  whole  School  goes,  and 
wonderful  effects  have  been  the  outcome — 
more  apparent  spirituality  in  the  School,  less 
criticism  of  one  another,  a  fellow-feeling  won- 
derfully kind  and  loving,  a  bringing  out  of  fel- 
lows like ,  a  Christian  courage  and  frank- 
ness which  is  a  constant  inspiration.     Really 

the  School  has  changed.     , and 

acknowledge  it  and  catch  it.     The  faculty  are 

very  happy  over  it,  and  encourage  it  all.    , 

and  X  are  responsible  for  it." 

Early  in  the  winter  of  this  last  year  at  the 
School  he  was  called  to  be  assistant  to  the  Rev. 
John  Cotton  Brooks,  at  Christ  Church,  Spring- 
field.    Bishop  Brooks,  in  his  brother's  behalf, 


40  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

urged  Atkinson  to  accept ;  and  Atkinson,  glad 
to  have  the  future  assured,  said  that  he  would 
go  as  soon  as  he  was  graduated  and  ordained. 
Meantime,  he  went  to  Springfield  nearly  every 
Sunday  to  give  Mr.  Brooks  such  help  as  he 
could  as  a  layman.  The  twenty-second  of 
January  he  had  spent  a  very  happy  Sunday  at 
the  Springfield  Rectory;  but  Monday  morning 
Mr.  Brooks  received  a  telegram  saying  that 
the  Bishop  was  ill.  After  Mr.  Brooks  had 
started  for  Boston,  and  as  Atkinson,  who  was 
to  take  the  next  train,  was  about  to  leave  the 
Rectory,  a  telegram  came  saying,  "  Phillips 
gone  at  6.30."  "  I  read  it  to  the  family,"  he 
wrote  simply  to  his  brother.  "  They  are  all 
prostrated  with  the  sudden  affliction,  and  I 
left  them  in  tears.  My  three  hours'  ride 
seemed  very  long  and  gloomy.  Everybody 
here  at  the  School  is  sad  and  beyond  consola- 
tion. Our  only  encouragement  comes  when 
we  think  what  is  left  for  us,  to  be  worthy  of 
the  commission  he  has  given  us.  We  who 
expected  him  to  ordain  us  next  June  hardly 
know  what  to  say  or  think."  Monday  was  a 
holiday  at  the  School,  and  as  the  men  came 
back,   one  after  another,  from    their  mission 


A   STUDENT  OF  THEOLOGY  4 1 

work,  they  gathered  in  friendly  rooms  to  say 
quietly  how  profound  were  their  astonish- 
ment and  grief.  The  next  morning  at  chapel 
the  Dean,  usually  restrained  and  reserved, 
broke  down  and  wept  as  he  tried  to  read  the 
Beatitudes  for  the  Lesson,  and  Mr.  Nash  came 
to  his  aid.  Regaining  composure  later,  he 
announced  in  broken  words  that  the  School 
had  lost  its  best  friend  on  earth,  and  that 
there  would  be  no  recitations — the  School 
should  be  silent  for  the  week,  except  the 
daily  services  morning  and  night.  Then  he 
read  a  telegram  of  consolation  from  Bishop 
Whipple,  adding,  "  He  has  the  child-heart, 
too — he  understood  him." 

Once  more,  on  Thursday,  the  students  of 
the  School,  in  academic  gowns,  led  the  long 
procession  of  clergy  and  bishops  into  Trinity 
Church.  No  one  there  could  ever  forget  the 
simple  grandeur  of  the  scene.  Every  student 
came  away  with  new  faith.  Atkinson,  with  a 
friend,  boarded  a  street  car,  intending  to  go  at 
once  to  the  School ;  but  as  they  reached  Har- 
vard Square  the  funeral  procession  was  just 
entering  the  College  Yard,  so  they  stood  rev- 
erently with  bared  heads  among  the  several 


42  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

thousand  other  Harvard  men  lined  up  as  a 
guard  of  honor.  Afterward  they  walked  on 
rapidly,  not  knowing  exactly  whither  they 
went,  speaking  all  the  time  of  what  he  had  been 
to  them.  At  last  their  steps  led  into  the  gate  of 
Mount  Auburn,  and  from  a  bit  of  high  ground 
they  looked  over  to  the  distant  group  of  people 
gathered  about  the  open  grave,  where  the  two 
brothers  were  saying  the  last  words. 

This  tragedy  made  the  closing  months  of  At- 
kinson's preparation  for  the  ministry  a  climax 
of  high  purpose  and  resolve.  He  searched  far 
and  wide  for  photographs  of  Bishop  Brooks, 
and  had,  finally,  the  best  collection  known  to 
the  Bishop's  friends.  These  he  kept  always  at 
hand,  and  many  people  came  to  see  them.  It 
was  good  for  him  to  have  such  a  hero  in  flesh 
and  blood ;  it  gave  him  faith,  it  gave  him 
courage  to  dare,  to  be  his  best. 

With  the  inclement  weather  of  a  Cambridge 
spring  and  with  hard  work  he  was  dangerously 
near  breaking  down.  Writing  to  a  classmate 
who  was  ill  at  home,  he  said  :  *  "  I  am  not  well, 
yet  my  courage  is  good,  and  I  think  I  shall  stay 
it  out.     .     .     .     We  may  be  weaklings  in  the 

*  April  I,  1893. 


A    STUDENT  OF   THEOLOGY  43 

flock,  but  let  us  try  to  do  what  we  hoped  it 
might  be  granted  us  to  do.  I  am  impatient  for 
the  battle,  and  I  do  not  care  much  whether  I  go 
under  early  or  late,  so  long  as  the  command 
comes  true.  I  feel  differently  from  what  I  once 
did.  My  courage  has  not  gone,  it  only  has 
changed  into  a  better  kind.  Once  I  was  only 
brave  enough  to  win,  now  I  try  to  think  myself 
brave  enough  to  fight — and  lose,  if  need  be." 

He  soon  recovered  his  spirits,  however,  and 
wrote  *  to  another  friend :  "  My  Springfield  Sun- 
days have  been  the  happiest  days  since  my  par- 
ents died.  I  have  learned  very  much  about  the 
Bishop ;  I  have  looked  over  many  of  his  let- 
ters and  sermons.     It  is  all  a  great  inspiration. 

"  Professor  Drummond  is  here,  making  a 
tremendous  excitement.  He  came  twice  to 
Appleton  Chapel  and  I  had  to  stand  in  line  ten 
minutes  to  get  in,  and  I  was  half  an  hour  early 
and  the  public  was  not  admitted.  He  speaks 
to  our  School  this  week.  And,  oh,  you  pro- 
vincials !  Duse  is  here :  Boston  is  wild  over 
her.  Her  Camille  is  greater  than  Bernhardt's. 
Willard  is  here  with  a  play  by  Barrie ;  the 
Dalys  with   'Twelfth  Night';  'Shore  Acres/ 

*  April  25,  1893. 


44  EDiVARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

a  wonderful  play  by  Heme,  is  having  its  looth 
night  at  the  Museum ;  two  weeks  of  Grand 
Opera  at  the  Boston  Theatre ;  finally,  Ni- 
kisch,  Symphony  Concerts,  Paderewski,  and 
Grossmith !     .     .     . 

"The  School,  I  think,  as  a  whole  is  in  a  fine 
condition — more  spirit  of  all  kinds  than  ever 
before ;  more  athletic,  more  pious,  more  intel- 
lectual." 

In  May  Dean  Lawrence  was  elected  Bishop 
of  Massachusetts,  and  the  night  of  the  election, 
after  dinner,  the  men  all  called  on  him  together, 
to  tender  their  sorrowful  congratulations.  They 
all  felt  what  he  had  been  to  the  School.  At- 
kinson, with  the  others,  had  learned  to  know 
the  fine  spirituality  which  lay  behind  all  his  sim- 
plicity and  kindness ;  and  he  gave  to  him,  as  his 
bishop,  an  always  increasing  trust  and  affection. 

On  June  21,  1893,  Atkinson  was  ordered 
Deacon  at  St.  John's  Chapel  by  his  late 
bishop's  friend.  Bishop  Randolph.  It  was  the 
climax  of  long  hopes :  he  was  now  sent  to  his 
work.  But,  just  as  all  seemed  clear,  he  received 
beckonings  to  another  field.  He  was  not  to 
begin  his  ministry  without  one  further  struggle 
to  read  his  duty. 


CHAPTER  IV 

TWO  YEARS  IN  SPRINGFIELD 

JUST  as  Atkinson  was  finishing  his  work 
at  Cambridge,  he  was  called  to  succeed  the 
Rev.  Percy  Grant  at  Fall  River.  Mr.  Brooks, 
to  whom  Atkinson  felt  himself  bound,  magnani- 
mously gave  him  his  freedom,  yet  naturally 
pleaded  with  him  to  come  to  Springfield.  The 
mission  work  at  Fall  River  appealed  to  Atkin- 
son :  all  who  knew  him  best  deemed  him 
exactly  the  man  for  it,  and,  in  his  freedom, 
urged  him  to  accept  it.  Because  this  effort  to 
read  his  duty  was  a  sort  of  crisis,  it  must  be 
told  in  full.  His  own  words  to  a  friend  tell  it 
best : 

"  I  think  I  told  you  how  strongly  Mr.  Nash 
and  the  fellows  were  for  Fall  River,  and  Dr. 
Allen's  kind  words,  and  the  Dean's  leaning 
toward  the  new  work.  All  the  time  that  these 
people  were  talking  in  this  way  and  praising 
me  as  if  I  were  dead  and  they  were  bound  to 


46  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

say  only  good  things  of  the  dead,  Mr.  Brooks 
kept  up  a  steady  line  of  letters.  In  them  he 
told  of  his  need  for  me  and  what  God's  work 
in  the  parish  required — and  he  kept  saying : 
*  Don't  come  for  personal  reasons ;  consider 
yourself  free :  don't  think  of  me.'  Well,  I 
could  not  stand  that :  it  made  me  say  in  my 
heart,  '  Oh,  let  me  go  and  give  Mr.  Brooks  the 
answer  he  wants.'  He  was  so  magnanimous 
about  it,  and  he  was  already  so  dear  to  me, 
and  I  owed  so  much  to  the  beloved  Bishop, 
and  I  kept  thinking,  '  If  all  these  things  which 
my  friends  are  saying  of  me  are  true,  is  it  not 
all  the  more  reason  why  I  should  go  to  Spring- 
field and  make  the  Bishop  happy  by  being  a 
real  help  to  his  brother  ? '  I  felt  I  was  strong 
against  the  advice  of  those  who  said  Fall 
River.  *  They  love  me,'  I  said,  *  and  want  to 
see  me  in  a  big  work.'  .  .  .  Then  I  tried 
to  think  of  my  duty  on  the  other  side.  *  Sup- 
pose Fall  River  is  a  big  work  and  you  cannot 
grasp  it  all '  .  .  .  '  Are  you  not  afraid  and 
running  away?'  I  said  all  this  and  actually 
read  over  that  first  sermon  of  mine  about 
men's  not  doing  what  God  means  them  to  do : 
then  I  thought  I  was  really  being  sent  to  Fall 


riVO    YEARS  IN  SPRINGFIELD  4/ 

River  by  God.  '  Why  has  this  offer  come  just 
as  I  was  committing  myself  at  Springfield,  and 
why  does  there  seem  to  be  only  one  opinion 
among  my  advisers,  if  the  hand  of  God  is  not 

in  it  ? '     So  I  talked  it  over  with and  he 

read  me  a  sermon  on  Loyalty  to  Christ,  and 
out  of  it  all  I  resolved  to  go  to  Fall  River. 
But  I  was  worried  and  nervous  over  the  whole 
affair.  It  was  counting  on  me  terribly.  The 
fellows  knew  it  and  were  so  good  to  me,  so 
good  that  I  never  shall  forget  it.  Mr.  Brooks 
knew  it,  and  he  knew  how  I  was  being  urged 
on  all  sides,  and  out  of  the  goodness  of  his 
heart  he  telegraphed  to  me  :  *  Your  mind  tired 
and  overworked,  don't  try  to  make  any  deci- 
sion yet,  I  beg  you,  but  come  right  down  here 
to  us  all  to-night  and  be  quiet  a  while — only 
safe  way — come  without  fail.' 

"  I  went.  I  was  very  happy  at  the  tea  table, 
and  they  all  seemed  so  glad  to  have  me  and  I 
really  seemed  to  be  adding  to  their  joy,  too. 
I  began  to  weaken  on  my  Fall  River  resolve. 

"  I  do  not  think  they  intended  to  talk,  but 
after  supper  Mrs.  Brooks — a  beautiful  womanly 
woman — let  drop  a  fatal  remark.  The  struggle 
began.     .     .     .     At  last  I  broke  down  and  left 


48  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

the  room.  Mr.  Brooks  found  me  and  said  he 
wanted  me  to  go  to  bed  and  think  no  more 
about  it.  ...  I  had  not  slept  for  several 
nights ;  they  gave  me  sleep-stuff  and  I  slept 
late  the  next  day." 

He  had  now  full  materials  from  all  sides, 
and  after  returning  to  Cambridge  and  talking 
the  matter  over  with  Mr.  Nash,  he  decided 
for  Springfield. 

"  So  I  have  chosen  Springfield,"  he  wrote, 
"  freely,  thoughtfully,  prayerfully.  And  the 
choice  makes  me  true  to  my  first  commission, 
true  to  Mr.  Brooks  and  the  dear  Bishop,  and 
true,  I  hope  and  pray,  to  my  real  Taskmaster. 
But  I  did  long  to  go  to  Fall  River.  You  know 
that  I  wanted  to  do  just  that  kind  of  work 
and  to  be  the  helper  of  just  the  Fall  River 
kind  of  people.  Perhaps,  however,  the  particu- 
lar strings  which  Percy  Grant's  work  sounded 
may  be  touched  by  the  work  here,  if  not  here, 
then  later  elsewhere  as  suits  God's  good  will. 
I  am  bound  to  be  happy :  that  was  a  right  I 
reserved  from  the  first,  whatever  the  outcome. 
It  has  all  been  a  great  lesson  to  me,  as  I  hope 
in  a  way  it  may  be  to  you,  that  we  are  more 
truly  God's  than  we  usually  think — that  every 


TfVO    YEARS  IN  SPRINGFIELD  49 

Step  in  life  must  have  His  sanction,  must  be 
treated  as  a  call.  .  .  .  For  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  feel  absolutely  and  solely  a  tool  in 
God's  hand." 

The  decision  past,  he  dropped  everything 
and  went  to  the  World's  Fair  in  Chicago.  In 
the  company  of  friends  his  accustomed  buoy- 
ancy came  back.  "  It  is  the  grandest,  finest, 
most  beautiful  and  artistic  spectacle  I  have 
ever  gazed  upon,"  he  wrote.  "  It  is  Venice, 
Rome  and  Paris,  and  I  don't  doubt  Athens, 
combined."  He  immediately  urged  all  scep- 
tical friends  to  go.  To  one  of  his  younger 
brothers  he  apportioned  just  the  time  to  be 
spent  in  different  buildings.  The  first  and  last 
hour  must  be  spent  in  getting  a  general  view 
of  the  whole.  "  All  extra  time,  spend  in  look- 
ing again  at  pictures  and  sculpture  in  the  Art 
Gallery — and  standing  with  your  mouth  open 
in  the  Court  of  Honor.  Close  the  door  when 
you  come  out." 

Coming  back  to  Springfield  to  begin  his 
work,  he  settled  down  in  the  empty  Rectory ; 
for  the  Rector's  family  were  all  away  for  the 
summer.  Letters  continued  to  come  from 
friends  about  his  decision,  revealing  a  trust  and 
4 


50  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

affection  which  overwhelmed  him.  '*  The  joy 
which  has  come  to  me,"  he  said,  "  in  the  ex- 
pressed love  and  interest  of  so  many  people 
has  made  heaven  enough  for  me  for  many 
years  to  come."  He  was  soon  lost,  too,  in  the 
responsibility  which  the  entire  charge  of  a 
large  parish  threw  about  him.  He  was  sud- 
denly called  upon  to  rejoice  with  people  and 
to  weep  with  them.  To  his  delight  he  found 
that  Christ  Church  had  not  only  its  prosperous 
people  but  its  poor.  He  began  to  give  him- 
self, soul  and  body,  to  all  sorts  and  conditions, 
just  as  he  had  given  himself  to  his  friends,  and 
their  love  came  back  to  him. 

Still  the  old  Cambridge  friendships  stayed 
him.  "  Sure  enough,"  he  wrote  to  one  still  in 
the  School,  "  you  and  I  no  longer  live  together, 
window-seat  together,  jaunt  up  Brattle  Street 
together ;  but  delightful  letters  come  from  you 
to  me  in  my  loneliness,  and  I  find  you  commu- 
nicative, responsive,  sympathetic,  as  in  the  dear 
old  Cambridge  days." 

Dr.  Lawrence  was  consecrated  Bishop  on  the 
fifth  of  October.  For  weeks  Atkinson  had  been 
looking  forward  to  this  opportunity  to  be  with 
his  Cambridge  friends  again,  "  To  this  minute," 


TfVO    YEARS  IN  SPRINGFIELD  $1 

he  wrote  three  days  later,  "  I  cannot  compre- 
hend the  reception  I  received  at  the  School. 
Such  kind  words  and  warm  greetings  which 
came  from  every  one  to  a  man.  Fellows  hug- 
ging me  and  pulling  at  my  coat  tails,  and  shak- 
ing hands,  and  all  talking  at  once,  for  a  whole 
afternoon  and  evening."  Then  he  added, 
"  The  Consecration  was  the  best  conducted 
affair  I  ever  saw  in  Trinity :  music,  service,  pro- 
cessional— beautiful.  Old  Zante  was  a  little 
too  much  of  a  curiosity,  but  the  ceremony  out- 
did anything  I  ever  saw  anywhere." 

Just  at  this  time  Fall  River  was  again  offered 
him,  his  work  there  to  begin  after  Christmas, 
by  which  time  Mr.  Brooks  could  secure  another 
assistant.  "  I  had  my  talk  with  Nash,"  he 
wrote.  "  He  was  beautiful.  Nash  is  all  that 
we  say  he  is,  when  we  say  our  best  of  him. 
He  sees  the  spiritual  side  of  things,  and  helps  a 
fellow  to  see  it,  too.  Mr.  Grant  has  written  to 
me  from  New  York,  telling  me  the  oughts  of  the 
case.    But  it  all  is  too  late.    Fall  River,  R.  I.  P." 

So  he  felt  himself  established  at  Springfield. 
"  My  work  has  settled  into  shape  now,"  he 
wrote.*  "  Every  afternoon  but  Thursday  I 
*  November  14,  1893. 


52  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

visit.  Every  morning  from  nine  to  eleven  I 
give  to  Mr.  Brooks ;  the  rest  of  the  morning  to 
fixing  up  records,  lists,  letters,  Sunday-school 
and  the  like;  part  of  the  evenings  to  meetings, 
one  to  preparation,  one  or  two  to  visiting.  I 
never  have  time  to  study.  I  have  written  only 
one  sermon.  I  never  sit  in  any  chair  in  the 
house  but  my  desk  chair. 

"  Sunday-school,  though  small  (250),  grows, 
and  is  now  nicely  organized.  I  have  re- 
vised and  twice  copied  a  ten-year-old  com- 
municant list.  I  give  the  bulk  of  a  day  to 
getting  up  and  getting  off  my  Teachers* 
Meetings.  I  give  half  a  day  to  editing  a 
Parish  Leaflet.  I  have  tried  to  write  three 
Lesson  Papers  a  week,  but  we  expect  to  buy 
them  hereafter. 

"  I  am  happy  in  a  calm  way.  I  never  quite 
knew  this  kind  of  joy  before.  My  happiness 
has  always  been  enthusiastic  and  active, 
now  it  is  peaceful.  If  I  could  get  rid  of  my 
secret  faults,  my  self-consciousness,  my  count- 
ing myself  better  than  many  of  my  betters,  I 
think  I  should  be  knowing  the  most  godlike 
days  of  my  life.  Yet  in  a  great  many  ways  I 
am  better  when  happy  in  the  dear  old  boiling. 


TIVO    YEARS  IN  SPRINGFIELD  53 

babbling  away.  When  I  am  so  full  of  good, 
happy  things  to  do  and  to  ponder  upon  that 
bad  things  can't  find  a  place,  then  I  am  more 
often  the  good  man  I  wish  and  try  to  be.  I 
have  suffered  much  of  late  and  God  has  some- 
how softened  it  all  to  me,  so  that  it  seems 
as  if  I  never  wished  more  to  be  a  righteous 
man." 

A  little  later  he  wrote  :  *'  Getting  our  Parish 
over  Christmas  has  nearly  killed  me.  It  has 
been  great  fun,  but  very  exhausting.  Christ- 
mas greens,  three  Christmas  entertainments, 
pantomime,  carols,  infant  baptisms — for  which 
I  have  been  the  '  small  boy,'  the  *  dish-washer,' 
the  '  baggage-smasher,'  the  '  designer,'  *  prop- 
erty-man,' 'police,*  *  musical  director,'  'man  of 
all  work,'  etc.,  etc.,  etc. — have  kept  me  at  it 
nearly  twenty  hours  a  day  for  two  weeks. 
The  Rector,  now  it's  all  over,  says,  '  Now,  we 
can  just  take  our  coats  off  and  get  some  work 
done.' " 

A  natural  student,  he  moaned  to  think  how 
little  he  read.  "  Of  all  my  old  resolves  what  I 
would  do  when  I  got  into  etc.,  I  keep  only 
one — reading  poetry."  When  he  went  on  a 
journey,   however  brief,   Palgrave's   "  Golden 


54  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

Treasury  "  was  wont  to  go  with  his  Bible  and 
his  Prayer  Book.  He  did  read  more  or  less 
biography,  too,  these  days,  but  that  was  too 
light  to  be  mentioned,  he  thought.  Besides, 
the  irony  of  fate  compelled  him  to  read  a  Sun- 
day-school library  from  Whittaker,  which  with 
agony  and  conscientiousness  he  read  through 
before  he  allowed  the  books  to  go  into  the 
hands  of  the  children.  "  I  have  done  very 
little  reading,"  he  said  after  this,  "  but  my 
associates  are  such  that  somehow  I  manage  to 
get  the  gist  of  all  the  latest  books.  I  have  yet 
to  read  Kidd." 

May  1 8,  1894,  he  was  again  in  Cambridge, 
to  be  ordained  to  the  Priesthood.  He  was  or- 
dained in  St.  John's  Chapel  by  his  old  teacher. 
Bishop  Lawrence.  Once  more  the  old  friends 
still  left  in  Cambridge  gathered  about  him  ;  he 
felt  that  he  had  come  home  to  receive  the  last 
sacred  commission  for  his  life. 

Atkinson's  great  work  at  Springfield  was 
among  the  boys  and  young  men.  "  The  idea  ?  " 
he  said.  "  Whose  was  it  ?  Yes,  it  was  mine — 
founded  on  my  knowledge  of  boy  nature.*  .  .  . 

*  His  knowledge  of  boy  nature  is  perhaps  best  illustrated 
by  a  lecture  on  "  Chums  "  which  he  gave  while  in  Spring- 


TfVO    YEARS  IN  SPRINGFIELD 


55 


I  sent  a  hustling  postal-card  to  all  the  young 
fellows  (over  i6)  I  could  hear  of.     We  began 


field.     A  few  extracts  from  his  notes  for  this   lecture  will 
indicate  its  tenor  : 


A.  What  is  a  Chum? 

1.  How  the  word    came:  "com- 

rade," "chamber." 

2.  What  do  you  mean  by  "  chum- 

ming "  with  a  fellow  ? 

3.  How  often  I  hear  the  expres- 

sion. 

4.  Items  in  the  definition. 

a.  Going- everywhere  together 

— "Want  one  ?     Hunt  for 
the  other  ! " 

b.  The   Song—"  Sharing    each 

other's    sorrows,    Sharing 
each  other's  ioys." 

c.  Being  "  thick. 

d.  "  Standing  up,"  etc. 

e.  Buying  similar  things. 
Owning  similar  things. 
Doing  similar  things. 
Wearing  similar  things. 

/.  Very  familiar  and  intimate. 

Not  on  good  behavior. 

Not  on  ceremony. 

Not  in  best  clothes. 

Running  in  on  each  other. 

Real,  every-day. 
g.  Little  d  iff  erent  than  to  others. 
h.  Helping  each  other  out. 

"  Paper  boys." 

Howard  and  Phil. 

After  berries. 
i.  Love. 

1.  "  Comrades." 

2.  Homesick-Herman. 

3.  Professor  James's  father. 

4.  F.  Robertson  and  watches. 

5.  Chas.  Kingsley's  twins. 

6.  Dr.  CoUyer's  story. 

7.  Jonathan  and  David. 

"  Mary  loved  the  lamb,  you  know. 
Because  the  lamb  loved  Mary  so. 

Mutual  affection— \Xa^  the  key 
to  it  all.  "  Chum"  then,  is  a 
boy's  word  for  a  true,  intimate, 
every  -  day,  through  -  thick  -  and- 
thin  frieod. 


£.  What  a  "  Chum  "  is  Not. 

Merely 

a.  A  boon  companion. 
Just  pleasure. 

You  really  don't  like  such  a 
fellow  long. 

b.  Sel/isA yellow:  trying  to"gtt 

all  he  can"  out  of  you: 
"sponges"  you ;  a  "toady.' 

c.  Neither     the     opposite— on^ 

whom  you  sponge  and  fol- 
low after  because  he  has 
better  things  than  you 
have. 

Cf .  St.  Christopher— how 
he  wished  to  serve  a  big- 
ger giant — the  picture  at 
Venice. 

d.  Always'"'' foolingup" :  never 

serious ;  never  acting  as 
if  he  liked  you  for  your- 
self alone.  Just,  "Hail  fel- 
low, well  met " — and  noth- 
ing more. 

True  chums  quiet  down 

sometimes  and  "talk  over" 

things  at  walk,  etc. 

A  Chum   is  not,  then,  a  mere 

companion,      a      "  sponge,"      a 

"  toady,"  etc. — but 

a  true,  loving  friend. 

C.  Have  You   Chums?      [Some 

really  haven't.] 
I.  Value. 

a.  Can  there  be  any  doubt  ? 

b.  What     others      have     said. 

[Here  follow  quotations 
from  Cicero,  Evelyn,  S. 
Ambrose,  Dr.  Arnold.] 

c.  Finally,  what  /  say — my  ex- 

perience, college,  etc. 
What  a  chum  means  to  me. 

The  joy  of  his  coming. 

Loneliness  without  him. 

No  matter  bow  poor  or 


56 


EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 


with  about  30  and  ended  with  a  roll  of  94,  and 
an  average  attendance  of  over  50,  and  we  had 
hardly  any  regular  absentees.     The  secret  lies 


homely — or  the  oppo- 
site. 
Let  go  everything  else  if 
necessary,  etc. 
3.  If  y«u  havt  chums,  kte^  thtm. 
1/  you   hav€  n*t  chums,   grt 
th*m. 

A.  Kttping. 

X.  Polonius's  advice : 

"  Grapple  them  to  thy  soul 

with  hoops  of  steel." 
a.  Frequent  cnanging  of  chums  a 

bad  sign. 

3.  Inconstancv,  disloyalty.  Think 

twice.  Be  forgiving.  Quar- 
rels between  friends  the 
worst.    70  X  7. 

4.  The    proverb:    "Thine   own 

friend  and  thv  father's  friend 
forsalce  not. 

5.  Write  letters. 
Malce  presents. 
Remember  "  old  times." 

In  a  viorA—Hold  /a*t  to  your 
chum*. 

B.  Getting. 

X.  "To  have  a  friend  yoa  must 
be  one." 
We  mutt  cultivatt  th$  fritndly 
tfirit. 
Learn  to  be  pleasant. 
Learn  to  love. 
Learn  to  be  helpful. 
Learn  to  draw  others  out. 
Learn  to  be  communicative. 
Think  well  of  others. 

"  You're  a  better  man  than 

I  am,  Gunga  Din." 
Bishop  Hare^  story. 
Moody's  coin. 
Stage  coach, 
t.  What  prevents  ? 
(a)  Selfishness. 

The  boy  who  jumps  al- 
ways for  the  best,  etc.,  has 
no  chums. 

lA7t*/or  himte^  . '.  has 


the  worst  chum  In  the  world 

—only  himself. 

To  be  self-centred  is  to 

be  self-circumferenced. 
ii)  Conceit.    Nobody  likes  him. 
(f )  The  bally. 
(a)  Making  chums  too  easily — 

wholesale  afiection,  so  no  one 

cares  for  it  (14  fathers  and 

mothers). 

This,  important  to^ie. 

"Eat  a  peck   of   salt  with 

him  " :  tlovt. 
"  Be  good  money-changers"; 

i.e.  ring  the  coin. 
Test  each  "  chum." 
Not  wearing  heart  on  sleeve : 
daws,  not  friends  will  peck 
at  it. 
If  you  haven't  a  chum,  make 
haste  to  get  one  (not  only  one,  but 
every  one  true)  and  getting^  keef. 

D.  Kino  op  Chums  to  Choosb. 

I.  Anyway,  he  is  ».  friend. 
a.  Manly. 

Brave ;  honest ;  frank. 

3.  "  Sand." 

A  "  brick  "  ;  square  -J-  grit. 

4.  Enthusiasm. 

5.  Tenderness. 

Tears. 
Affection. 
Gentleness. 
Consideration. 

Whyt 

I.  "  A  man  is  known  by  the 
company  he  keeps;"  "  birds  of 
a  feather,"  etc. ;  so  we  are  known 
by  our  chums. 

3.  Our  friends  mould  m  [here 
follow  Quotations]. 

.  .  choose  good  chums,  and 
keef  tuorthy  and  «i>  to  their  best 
fumities. 


TfVO    YEARS  IN  SPRINGFIELD  5/ 

along  this  line ;  i.  Foresight;  2.  Sense  of  the 
boys*  doing  the  work  all  themselves  ;  3.  Sense 
of  making  it  all  a  huge  success ;  4.  Sense  of 
working  for  others.  Now  a  word  on  each :  (i) 
That  is,  you  (the  clergyman)  must  think  hard ; 
put  good  ideas  indirectly  into  their  heads  as  to 
what  to  do  and  what  not  to  do.  Look  out  for 
mistakes,  abuses,  cliques,  swell-heads  and  one- 
man-runners,  long  before.  (2)  Even  if  you 
have  a  scheme,  throw  it  right  upon  the  house. 
Let  them  discuss  it  and  elect  committees. 
Perhaps  they  will  put  you  on.  Then  you  can 
direct  the  matter  to  a  safe  port,  anyway,  if 
you  watch.  Talk  of  what  they  do  ;  give  them 
all  the  credit  when  it  is  done.  (3)  (4)  Success. 
Why,  Trinity  Club  (the  name  of  the  Spring- 
field club)  got  all  over  the  city !  They  talked 
about  it  and  boomed  it  everywhere.  Then 
they  worked  inside  and  out  for  its  prosperity. 
For  example,  some  boys  saw  a  clique  of  poor, 
diffident  boys  forming  because  they  always 
took  the  same  seats  in  a  certain  corner.  So 
they  secretly  planned  to  get  these  seats,  first 
for  one  or  two  nights,  and  to  mingle  among 
them.  They  succeeded  completely.  A  negro 
could  bring  down  the  house,  as  a  blue-blood 


58  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

could  equally  well.  Both  were  popular.  If 
a  new  boy  came,  every  one  understood  that 
he  was  to  be  made  at  home.  Sometimes  a 
stranger,  just  come  in  for  the  first  time,  would 
be  surrounded  by  five  or  six  fellows  seeking 
to  entertain  him.  This  summer  I  have  quite 
often  met  two  chums  on  the  street  together — 
the  friendship  began  at  the  Trinity  Club. 

"  Now  what  is  their  special  work  ?  Some 
one  suggests  we  should  give  an  entertainment 
at  the  Alms  House  for  the  inmates  ;  some  one 
says,  *  Let's  put  flowers  in  the  Easter  decora- 
tions in  memory  of  a  deceased  member  ' ;  an- 
other suggests  a  series  of  young  men's  Lenten 
services ;  to  take  care  of  athletics  at  the  Sun- 
day-school picnic ;  also  a  banquet  of  one  hun- 
dred young  men.  All  these  are  actual  things 
proposed  and  cared  for  by  our  club,  besides  an 
entertainment  which  drew  nearly  one  thousand 
people." 

Atkinson's  ingenuity  came  to  light  in  the 
weekly  programme  for  the  club  itself.  He  put 
aside  debates,  gymnasium,  the  reading  of  papers, 
games,  drills ;  and  had  instead  talks  by  spe- 
cialists, legerdemain,  readings,  lectures,  instruc- 
tion by  illustrated  talks  from  doctors,  firemen. 


THIS    IS   AN    EVENING    PICTURE    OF  A  NORTH    SHORE  SUMMER. 
JT  IS  CHARACTERISTIC  THAT  THREE  BOYS  WERE  WITH  HIM 


IN    SEASONABLE   WEATHER    HE   TRIED  TO   SPEND   ONE   AFTER- 
NOON A  WEEK   IN  A  CANOE  ON  THE  CHARLES 


TJVO    YEARS  IN  SPRINGFIELD  59 

editors  and  the  like.  As  far  as  possible  the 
members  furnished  the  entertainment.  "  Cre- 
ate your  own  material,"  he  said  ;  "  it  is  sur- 
prising how  it  comes." 

On  June  9,  1894,  he  wrote  to  his  brother 
Hal:  "  Fred  has  been  unanimously  elected  prin- 
cipal of  the  Springfield  High  School.  Hurrah! 
It  is  a  grand  and  honorable  day  in  the  history 
of  the  Atkinsons.  He  is  very  happy,  and  so 
are  we  all."  This  meant  much  to  Edward. 
He  and  his  brother  now  became  interested 
often  in  the  same  boys.  But  often  those  who 
seemed  impossible  to  the  schoolmaster  became 
possible  heroes  to  the  parson.  They  instinc- 
tively poured  out  their  troubles  to  Edward, 
and  already  many  boys  were  finding  in  him 
their  best  friend.  There  was  a  boy  named 
Allen  Rice,  a  Congregationalist,  who  often 
came  to  Atkinson's  rooms  with  two  chums: 
he  and  Atkinson  became  warm  friends  at  once, 
and  the  friendship  grew  in  later  years  to  be 
almost  the  best  treasure  each  had  in  his  life. 

It  was  small  wonder  that  the  boys  loved 
him.  He  loved  them.  "  Have  I  told  you," 
he  wrote  to  his  brother  Hal,  "  how  kind  the 
Trinity   Club   was  to   me   at   their  banquet? 


6o  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

There  were  over  one  hundred  present,  and  I 
was  introduced  toward  the  last  by  a  very  en- 
thusiastic friend  as  the  *  personification  of 
enthusiasm,'  a  *  heart  that  loved  everybody,* 
'the  true  owner  of  the  Club,'  etc.  Then  the 
fellows  clapped  and  clapped,  and  soon  began 
to  yell  just  as  we  used  to  in  college  and  at  ral- 
lies. Then  they  ended  up  with  three  cheers. 
I  nearly  broke  down  under  it.  I  never,  never 
shall  forget  it.  Then,  of  course,  I  spoke.  I 
tell  you  this  because  you  have  known  how 
hard  I  have  worked,  and  what  the  difficulties 
have  been.  It  was  the  happiest  moment  of 
my  Hfe." 

May  27,  1895,  he  accepted  a  call  to  the 
Church  of  the  Ascension  in  Boston  :  this  is  a 
chapel  of  Emmanuel  Parish  under  the  Rev. 
Dr.  Parks.  The  tears  filled  his  eyes  as  he 
looked  into  the  faces  of  the  congregation  on 
the  Sunday  which  intervened  between  the  call 
and  its  acceptance.  He  cared  for  such  a  great 
many  of  these  people,  from  Mr.  Brooks  down 
to  the  smallest  child  in  the  Sunday-school. 
He  wrote  of  being  "  very  blue  and  nervous- 
prostratery."  It  seemed  as  if  this  new  work, 
distinctly  of  a  mission  character,  in  the  South 


TWO    YEARS  IN  SPRINGFIELD  6l 

End  of  Boston,  were  exactly  what  he  had 
wished.  The  last  days  at  Springfield  were 
hardj  because  of  the  expressions  of  affection 
and  loyalty  that  came  in  abundance.  Fortu- 
nately the  work  in  Boston  was  not  to  begin 
till  September,  so  that  he  said  his  farewells  as 
quickly  as  possible,  and  early  in  July  was  set- 
tled for  the  summer  on  the  South  Shore. 


CHAPTER   V 

THE  FIRST  YEAR  IN  BOSTON 

ATKINSON  spent  most  of  the  summer  of 
l\  1895  with  a  friend  on  the  shore  of  Buz- 
zard's Bay.  They  had  rooms  in  a  fine  old  house 
on  the  edge  of  a  little  village,  and  went  to  a 
sea-captain's  to  eat.  Atkinson  had  hardly  ar- 
rived before  the  expressman  brought  a  large 
box,  containing  the  books  for  the  summer  read- 
ing. He  also  planned  to  rewrite  a  large  number 
of  sermons,  but  this  fell  through:  he  needed  the 
immediate  prospect  of  delivering  them  to  make 
it  possible  to  write  sermons.  But  the  two 
friends  read  their  old  sermons  to  each  other, 
and  talked  of  texts,  subjects  and  methods. 
Together,  too,  they  read  aloud  volume  after 
volume,  especially  of  Tennyson  and  Browning. 
It  was  the  summer  when  Miss  Wilkins  pub- 
lished "The  Long  Arm"  in  "The  Boston 
Herald";  they  grew  so  intensely  interested  in 
this  brisk  detective  story  that  they  were  al- 


THE  FIRST   YEAR  IN  BOSTON  63 

ways  at  the  post-office  early  to  get  the  paper, 
and  then  went  to  sit  on  the  wharf  immediately 
to  read  it. 

Here  in  this  quaint  country,  walking  through 
the  woods  and  along  the  shore,  Atkinson 
talked  of  what  he  should  do  in  Boston.  "  I 
am  a  little  tremulous,"  he  wrote,*  "  about  my 
new  work.  I  do  not  have  the  least  idea  how 
to  go  at  it.  I  have  been  told  that  I  was  not 
to  be  liked  because  Mr.  Mills,  the  last  incum- 
bent, was  so  much  liked.  I  intend  to  make  a 
struggle,  anyway."  Toward  the  end  of  the 
summer  he  went  to  Boston  and  chose  a  large 
pleasant  room  in  The  Langham,  where  he  was 
to  live  after  the  first  of  September.  This  done, 
he  felt  happier. 

"  I  am  sore  distressed  in  thy  absence,"  he 
wrote  to  his  companion,  who  was  away  for 
several   days.     "  Please   come    back   quickly. 

Mrs.  knew  I  was  homesick  for  you  and 

brought  me  a  piece  of  custard  pie, — '  to  take 
his  place,'  she  said.     .     .     . 

"  Friday  night  I  picked  out  a  sermon — 
wrote  a  little — moaned  for  you — ate  the  pie 
— went  to  bed. 

♦  August  I,  1895. 


64  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

"  Saturday — went  to  New  Bedford  to  drown 
my  sorrow.     Not  much  good. 

"It  is  now  6.30  Saturday  evening.  Mr. 
Bird  wants  me  to  come  to  the  Casino  hop  to- 
night, but  I  '  darsent'." 

September  first  found  him  established  at 
The  Langham.  To  the  small  congregation  that 
gathered  in  the  church  for  the  first  Sunday  he 
bore  the  message  that  the  work  in  the  Church 
of  the  Ascension  must  be  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
everybody  helping  everybody  else.  To  this 
end,  in  a  practical  way,  he  called  the  people 
together  each  Wednesday  evening  for  what  he 
called  Welcome  Meetings.  These  were  held 
in  the  parish  rooms.  He  began  with  prayers, 
a  short  address  and  hymns.  After  this  there 
was  an  informal  entertainment,  during  which 
people  from  other  parts  of  Boston  recited, 
sang  or  played.  Often  at  the  last  moment 
these  friends  would  fail  him ;  so  that  he  would 
have  to  provide  the  entertainment  himself. 
The  entertainment  was  followed  by  a  light  re- 
fection, during  which  he  shook  hands  all  around, 
and  inquired  for  all  the  ill  and  absent.  It  was 
exhausting  work,  but  it  paid.  The  Church  of 
the  Ascension  quickly  increased  its  brotherly 


THE  FIRST   YEAR  IN  BOSTON  65 

love.   "  The  church  begins  to  seem  like  a  fam- 
ily," one  of  the  men  said. 

For  the  most  part  the  first  five  or  six 
months  in  Boston  were  months  of  observa- 
tion. "It  is  my  duty,"  he  wrote  to  Allen 
Rice,*  "to  do  the  work  God  has  given  me  in 
the  South  End  of  Boston.  I  am  happy  in  it 
because  I  know  I  am  trying  in  my  feeble  way 
to  make  some  unhappy  people  happier  and,  I 
trust,  better.  But  this  is  not  saying  I  do  not 
miss  you  and  my  dear  friends  in  Springfield. 
If  you  had  been  with  me  during  my  last  days 
there,  you  would  have  seen  that  my  heart  was 
about  breaking,  as  I  had  to  say  good-by  to  so 
many,  so  many  whom  I  shall  see  but  little  ever 
again  ...  I  thought  once  of  sending  each 
of  you  boys  a  gift ;  but  as  I  saw  more  and  more 
the  wistful  looks  on  the  faces  of  so  many  of  my 
children  here,  I  decided  to  give  all  I  could  to 
them ;  I  know  you  cannot  doubt  my  affection 
anyway. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  what  I  am  going  to  do 
after  next  week.     I   am  going  to  leave  this 
gorgeous  hotel  and  take  up  my  home  in  a  tene- 
ment on  a  street  where  several  of  my  families 
*  December  23,  1895. 
5 


Ci6  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

live.  I  find  that  I  must  live  more  as  my  peo- 
ple live,  if  I  am  to  do  the  most  for  them.  I 
want  them  to  come  and  see  me  more.  I  want 
them  to  know  that  I  am  a  man  just  like  them- 
selves. They  cannot  come  to  the  oppressive 
marble  walls  of  The  Langham ;  or,  if  they  do, 
they  get  an  entirely  wrong  idea  of  me.  So  the 
next  time  you  come  to  Boston  you  will  find  me 
living  in  a  wooden  tenement  in  a  very  humble 
street.  I  know  you  will  come  just  as  quickly, 
and  put  up  with  the  inconveniences." 

The  expense  of  getting  his  new  house  cleaned, 
papered  and  painted  was  considerable ;  and  the 
Christmas  demands  were  heavy,  in  addition  to 
incessant  demands  from  poverty.  "  Can  you 
lend  me  $2.00  until  next  Monday,"  he  wrote 
to  his  brother  Hal,  whose  office  was  in  the 
North  Station,  "  or  $5.00,  if  you  can  spare  it? 
As  it  is,  I  must  walk  (fact :  only  three  cents)  to 
get  it.  You  will  see  my  face  at  the  desk  some 
time  before  noon.  If  you  cannot,  all  right. 
I'll  walk  back." 

January  10,  1896,  he  wrote  to  his  brother :  "  I 
sleep  in  an  honest  man's  house  at  No.  i  Clifton 
Place  for  the  first  time  to-morrow  night."  Of 
this  tiny  house  he  kept  for  himself  the  two 


THE  FIRST   YEAR  IN  BOSTON  6/ 

rooms  on  the  second  floor;  on  the  first  floor 
lived  his  housekeeper  and  her  husband.  '  *  They 
are  poor,"  he  wrote,  "  but  of  the  salt  of  the 
earth."  He  added:  "  My  work  has  been  tre- 
mendously helped  by  my  style  of  living: 
'  Worth  more  than  seventy  sermons,'  one  of 
my  men  said.  The  numerous  calls  I  have  now 
to  receive  from  my  people  increase  my  work, 
but  I  am  learning  life  and  being  the  '  strong 
arm'  as  never  before." 

Meantime,  many  of  the  Springfield  boys 
came  to  Boston  frequently,  especially  when 
there  were  great  college  games  to  be  seen  at 
Cambridge.  They  camped  out  in  Atkinson's 
rooms,  and  it  was  often  hard  to  tell  when  or 
where  he  slept  on  such  occasions.  To  Allen 
Rice,  who  was  now  within  somewhat  more 
than  two  years  of  college,  he  wrote:  "  I  am 
very,  VERY,  VERY  glad  of  your  Harvard  de- 
cision. Yale  is  a  fine  institution,  but  it  has 
not  had  the  fine  history  or  the  men  that  Har- 
vard has  had.  Of  course  she  is  not  far  behind 
Harvard  in  any  of  these  things — yet  I  believe 
she  is  behind.  It  is  hard  to  describe  to  a  boy, 
but  as  one  looks  at  the  development  of  thought 
and  life  in  America — in  religion,  in  politics,  in 


68  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

literature — one  sees  (when  comparing  the  rela- 
tive work  of  Harvard  and  Yale)  that  Harvard 
has  been  nearest  the  front,  closest  to  the  best, 
broadest,  noblest  ideals.  Harvard  has  fought 
single-handed,  time  and  time  again,  for  ideas 
which  finally  the  whole  country  has  come 
around  to.  If  you  go  abroad  and  talk  with 
foreign  observers  of  American  universities,  you 
will  see  how  quickly  they  put  Harvard  at  the 
head.  I  shall  send  you  an  article  on  Harvard, 
the  first  few  sentences  of  which  I  can  never 
read  without  the  greatest  patriotism  for  coun- 
try and  university."  A  little  later  he  added: 
"  You  are  good  to  take  my  Harvard  talk  so 
appreciatively.  Next  to  the  Church  and  the 
good  old  Land  of  ours  I  love  Harvard." 

As  the  first  year  at  the  Ascension  advanced, 
he  felt  that  the  work  was  really  moving.  After 
Easter  he  wrote  to  Gilbert:  "  I  take  it  you 
would  like  to  know  how  the  church  has  gone. 
Splendidly.  It  has  increased  over  lOO  commu- 
nicants in  seven  months:  now  256.  The  con- 
gregations and  offerings  have  more  (little  more) 
than  doubled.  I  made  47  addresses  the  46 
days  of  Lent.  Result:  came  out  a  Roentgen 
photograph.     The  flesh  is  coming  back  now. 


THE  PIRST  YEAR  m  BOSTON  69 

however,  with  beef,  iron  and  wine.  We  had 
Confirmation  (23)  on  Easter  night.  We  have 
a  female-male  vested  choir  h  la  St.  Bartholo- 
mew's. We  had  to  have  it  under  the  circum- 
stances :  boys  not  a  success  for  a  choir  in  South 
End — voices  change  before  or  by  the  time  man- 
ners are  cultivated.  I  have  organized  a  chapter 
of  St.  Andrew's  Brotherhood  which  makes 
about  sixty  calls  a  month.  Dr.  Parks  backs 
me  up  in  good  style.     Every  one  is  kind." 

With  the  spring  weather,  a  friend  who  knew 
how  hard  he  worked  tried  to  get  him  out  into 
the  country.  "  I  want  to  come,  but  something 
tells  me  I  can't;  e.g.  meetings  Monday  and 
Wednesday  nights,  dentist  Tuesday,  Arch- 
deaconry Wednesday,  spring  calls,  two  ser- 
mons. But  I  will  come  later  to  ramble  off  in 
the  woods  with  you.  Let's  call  it  the  second 
week  in  June,  when  it  will  be  delightful  to  es- 
cape these  warm  streets  for  the  shades  of . 

Then,  having  the  beautiful  weather  and  verdure 
for  accompaniments,  you  can  make  me  happy 
with  your  own  sweet  self.  But  I  can  stand  you 
unadorned,  so  I  beg  you  to  visit  me  at  No.  i 
Clifton  Place  as  you  pass,  as  you  pass.  Visit 
me  at  No.  i  Clifton  Place,  as  you  pass.     Will 


70  ED  WARD  LINCOLN  A  TKINSON 

you  ?     Come  on  Sunday  night  as  you  return 

from .     There's  a  lot  to  talk  over,  and  by 

and  by  you  will  not  have  me  to  slide  down 
cellar  doors  with.  Do  come !  The  bulkheads 
are  extra  nice  and  slippery  hereabouts.  .  . 
"  Things  are  rather  slow  ecclesiastically  in 
this  See  town  now,  with censured, de- 
posed,   archdeaconed,  and  the of 

elected.  Billy  must  feel  quite  good  with  all 
this  off  his  hands.  But  how  we'll  weep  when 
you're  far  away.  Why  did  you  go  ?  No  mat- 
ter: we  will  love  you  all  the  more,  and  distance 
shall  prevail  not.     .     .     . 

"P.  S. — Come  going, 

Come  coming. 
And  stay  long. 
Do,  dovey." 

With  all  the  demands  upon  him,  he  found 
that  he  could  not  afford  any  longer  to  eat  at 
The  Langham,  so  about  the  middle  of  May  he 
wrote  to  his  brother  Hal:  "  I  am  going  to  try 
Mrs.  Carlyle  (his  housekeeper)  night  and  morn- 
ing and  Washington  Market  at  noon.  .  .  . 
I  get  along  very  nicely,  unless  I  have  a  lot  of 
company.     It  happens  that  I  have  actually  not 


THE  FIRST   YEAR  IN  BOSTON  7 1 

slept  in  my  own  bed  on  account  of  guests,  one 
after  the  other,  for  about  ten  days.  So  my 
work  is  all  behind." 

One  day  one  of  his  Brotherhood  men  met 
him  leaving  a  market  with  a  leg  of  lamb  which 
he  was  taking  to  a  poor  family.  The  man, 
knowing  in  some  way  how  Atkinson  was  being 
forced  to  take  his  luncheons  in  very  cheap 
places,  upbraided  him  for  giving  everything 
away.  "Suppose  you  break  down — you  will 
have  nothing  to  keep  you,"  the  man  cried. 
Atkinson  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye :  "Rob- 
ert," he  said,  "if  I  needed  anything,  and  went 
to  your  door  for  it,  would  you  refuse  me?" 
"Of  course  not,"  was  the  quick  answer. 
"  Well,"  said  Atkinson,  "every  one  in  my 
parish  would  do  for  me  in  the  same  way." 

The  work  this  spring  was  a  good  deal  heavier 
than  usual,  owing  to  the  withdrawal  of  the 
parish  visitor,  because  Dr.  Parks  reported  that 
Emmanuel  could  no  longer  afford  to  pay  for 
her.  Dr.  Parks  was  always  a  sympathetic 
leader,  leaving  to  Atkinson  the  entire  charge  of 
the  affairs  in  the  Chapel ;  but  since  Emmanuel 
Church  was  responsible  for  the  work,  Atkinson 
sometimes  felt  that  Dr.  Parks  should  have  bled 


\ 


^2  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

the  rich  parishioners  of  Emmanuel  somewhat 
more  freely.  Each,  with  ample  reason,  grew 
very  fond  of  the  other;  but  they  had  warm 
discussions  often  about  the  need  of  larger 
equipment  at  the  Ascension.  One  day,  when 
there  seemed  no  way  out,  Atkinson  held  up  his 
hand  and  cried,  "Scissors,  Mr.  Parks!"  So 
with  a  laugh  this  discussion  ended. 

The  vacation  of  1896  he  spent  at  Baddeck, 
Cape  Breton,  drawn  thither  by  his  friend  and 
classmate  Frederick  Edwards.  Here  he  read 
and  talked  and  wrote  letters  to  his  many  friends 
now  scattered  over  the  world.  But  the  Church 
of  the  Ascension  was  always  in  his  mind.  "It 
is, ' '  he  wrote, ' '  the  hardest,  blessedest  work  you 
can  imagine  for  me.  It  is  full  of  opportunities 
as  large  as  all  Boston.  And  I  have  such  con- 
ceptions of  what  it  ought  to  be !  My  ideas  are 
quite  different  from  any  one's  I  have  talked 
with.  I  want  to  make  the  Church  a  shrine,  so 
to  speak.  I  want  to  centre  everything  in  the 
Sunday  work  and  the  other  services;  to  cure 
poverty  not  by  dollars  and  cents  and  number- 
less institutions,  but  by  a  kind  of  Christian 
'Open  Sesame,'  which  is  to  be  obtained  as  in 
the  middle  ages  they  obtained  courage  and  in- 


-V-v  s-r-^  -s^^v^  ^,^ 


DOORWAY    OF   THE   CHURCH   OF   THE   ASCENSION,    BOSTON 


THE  FIRST   YEAR  IN  BOSTON  73 

spiration  by  visiting  the  Cathedrals.  I  wish 
so  to  do  the  preaching  and  to  conduct  the  ser- 
vices that  piety  of  the  accomph'shing  kind  will 
grow  among  the  people  of  the  streets  I  live 
m. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  SECOND  YEAR  IN  BOSTON 

ATKINSON'S  hold  upon  boys  was  not 
J~\  used  merely  to  entertain  them ;  he 
fought  for  their  higher  selves.  Two  or  three 
letters  to  a  boy  of  fine  spirit,  who,  in  their 
growing  intimacy,  sought  his  help  in  a  severe 
temptation,  will  show  his  method. 

"Only  one  page  to  you  before  the  week  ends 
to  tell  you  I  am  thinking  of  you  and  by  the 
Faith  Cure  of  Love  trying  to  heal  you.  Love 
is  wise,  not  blind.  It  sees  true  visions.  I 
know  that  it  is  all  coming  out  right  with  you 
and  that  the  load  will  fall  off  your  shoulders 
very  soon  as  it  fell  off  Christian's  in  Pilgrim's 
Progress. 

"Do  not  think  about  it  any  more  now,  but 
push  on  in  your  manly  way.  Your  heart  is 
brave,  your  arms  strong ;  so  shall  your  achieve- 
ment be  sure." 

A  month  later  he  wrote  again:  "  Your  letter 


THE  SECOND    YEAR  IN  BOSTON         7$ 

is  most  reassuring.  God  bless  you  in  the  posi- 
tion you  have  come  to.  You  have  suffered  and 
conquered.  You  make  me  think  of  one  of 
Stevenson's  noble  characters,  Olalla.  The 
story  ends  with  telling  how  Olalla  stood  by  a 
crucifix  on  a  highway  in  Spain — the  crucifix, 
'an  emblem  of  sad  and  noble  truths ;  that  pleas- 
ure is  not  an  end,  but  an  accident ;  that  pain  is 
the  choice  of  the  magnanimous;  that  it  is  the 
best  to  suffer  all  things  and  do  well.  I  turned 
and  went  down  the  mountain  in  silence;  and 
when  I  looked  back  for  the  last  time  before  the 
wood  closed  about  my  path,  I  saw  Olalla  (the 
Victorious)  still  leaning  on  the  crucifix.' 

"My  brave,  manly  boy,  keep  your  trust  in 
God,  and  live  always  as  becomes  one  who 
counts  himself,  as  I  know  you  do,  the  blessed 
and  pardoned  child  of  the  Father." 

Another  month  passed;  then  came  this 
letter:  "You  can  guess  how  much  I  have  been 
thinking  of  you  and  your  struggle  these  last 
two  days.  You  know  how  much  I  want  to 
help  you  and  to  bring  you  the  spiritual  help 
you  need.  .  .  .  My  dear  boy,  do  not 
worry,  do  not  belittle  yourself.  You  have  been 
always  a  manly,  brave  fellow  in  spite  of  it  all ; 


7&  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

only  keep  on.  I  hope  you  will  agree  to  do  as 
I  asked  you.  .  .  .  Let  me  know,  if  only 
by  one  line,  how  it  is  going  with  you.  Oh, 
dear  boy,  you  know  where  my  heart  is  and 
what  my  wishes  for  you  are,  and  that  I  am  ask- 
ing God  to  do  for  you  what  I  cannot  do  and 
what  you  alone  can  do  for  yourself.  .  .  . 
I  have  been  thinking  of  your  friends,  the  ones 
you  love  so  much.  They  are  a  pillar  of  iron,  a 
wall  of  brass,  to  you,  if  you  will  only  count 
them  so.  No  one  need  know  your  struggle, 
yet  you  may  put  your  back  to  theirs  and  fight 
the  better." 

A  month  later  he  added:  "As to  the  struggle 
we  have  talked  about,  you  know  what  my 
thoughts  are.  Let  my  friendship  help  you. 
Let  the  knowledge  that  I  have  been  through 
the  same  tempestuous  battle  help  you.  God 
is  the  friend  of  strugglers  and  His  best  hopes 
will  prevail." 

The  victory  was  won,  decisively,  completely. 
It  is  not  strange  that  this  man  to-day  counts 
Atkinson  his  best  friend,  for  all  time. 

In  the  parish  the  winter  of  1896-97  brought 
a  wholesome  growth.  "  I  got  well  rested,"  he 
wrote  to  Allen  Rice  during  the  winter,  "but 


THE   SECOND   YEAR  IN  BOSTON  77 

my  work  is  always  so  pressing  here,  that  rest 
soon  wears  out.  I  cannot  let  up  this  year,  but 
I  hope  for  an  assistant  next  year;  then  it  will 
be  different.  This  week  (and  you  may  judge) 
I  have  had  four  funerals,  two  weddings,  over 
sixty  callers  {i.e.,  seven  days  back),  two  ser- 
mons, two  addresses,  seven  other  meetings, 
and  have  made  about  twenty  calls,  and  written 
(by  hand  and  typewriter)  over  fifty  letters. 
Except  for  the  funerals  and  weddings  this  is 
only  an  average  week.  Do  not  think  I  com- 
plain. Every  moment  of  it  is  joy  to  me.  Even 
as  it  is,  I  fall  far  short  of  what  I  should  like  to 
do  for  my  Master.  I  am  only  telling  you,  that 
you  may  see  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
practise  what  I  preach  to  you  on  the  subject 
of  overwork.     .     .     . 

"This  parish  grows  more  and  more  to  be 
part  of  me,  bone  of  my  bone  and  flesh  of  my 
flesh.  I  am  getting  to  be  loved  in  spite  of  my 
shortcomings.  My  personality  is  being  under- 
stood. But  with  the  new  people  and  the  grow- 
ing familiarity  of  the  old,  my  time  is  all  taken 
and  it  is  hard  to  get  a  word  or  a  moment  for 
you  dear  ones  of  Springfield." 

During  the   summer  he  wrote  to  Gilbert, 


78  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

summing  up  the  work  for  the  year:  "I  can  speak 
to  you  very  frankly,"  he  said,  "and  tell  you 
some  of  the  gains  I  feel  I  have  come  to  as  a 
minister.  First,  I  think  the  personal  element 
has  grown.  I  mean  I  have  the  shepherd's 
feeling  as  regards  the  individuals  of  my  flock. 

•  The  deaths  ye  have  died  I  have  watched  beside, 
And  the  lives  ye  have  lived  are  mine.* 

They  are  especially  my  people.  How  it  helps 
the  work!  Pastoral  visits,  criticisms,  con- 
firmation work,  Holy  Communion,  preach- 
ing, all  seem  so  much  more  real  and  worth 
while.  It's  really  blessed  comfort,  isn't  it, 
after  you  have  been  loving  the  world  in  the 
abstract  so  long,  to  be  able  to  love  and  to  be 
loved  concretely — to  think  that  people  come 
to  you  for  this  and  that  because  you  are  you, 
and  you  are  therefore  something  particular  to 
them?  I  think  you  know  what  I  am  driving 
at,  though  I  grant  it  is  vague.  I  thought  when 
I  was  in  Springfield,  in  my  innocence,  that  I 
had  come  to  the  joy  of  the  ministry,  but  only 
lately  do  I  feel  assured  that  the  real  joy  of  it 
has  come  to  be  mine.  Second,  preaching.  I 
think  I  have  improved  in  every  way.     Woe  is 


THE  SECOND    YEAR  IN  BOSTON  79 

me  if  I  have  not.  Anyway,  it's  more  fun  than 
it  used  to  be.  I  hate  to  let  my  pulpit  go  even 
for  one  service,  and — it's  a  fact — my  people 
have  brought  me  to  that  fame  as  to  inquire  at 
the  door  if  I  am  to  preach,  and  when  I  announce 
plainly  that  I  am  to  take  a  certain  service,  the 
church  is  full  to  the  doors.  I  am  trying  to  fol- 
low Dr.  Greer's  way  of  preaching  a  sermon.  I 
scarcely  ever  write  one  out  fully.  I  try  to  get 
lots  of  material  and  much  enthusiasm,  and 
rather  let  the  English  take  care  of  itself.  It's 
poor  enough  that  I  am  doing,  but  the  gains  are: 
real  fun  in  doing  and  comparative  ease  in  pre- 
paring. Third,  Holy  Communion.  This  has 
been  my  true  pride  and  pleasure  this  year. 
Real,  serious,  pious,  churchly,  practical  teach- 
ing and  exhortation.  As  a  result,  the  whole 
church  almost  comes  to  Communion,  five  or 
six  times  as  many  as  formerly.  I  enjoy  my 
Communion  preaching  more  than  any  I  do. 
Things  have  prospered  as  I  never  dared  to  hope 
since  I  began  the  work  of  the  Church  of  the  As- 
cension. And  when  I  ask  myself  why,  I  find 
the  answer  here — Holy  Communion.  Every 
ounce  of  effort  here  brings  pounds  of  results 
everywhere  else.     I  know  that  you  know  and 


8o  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

believe  this,  but  you  may  be  interested  in  my 
test  of  the  principle  and  its  absolute  proof. 
St.  Andrew's,  Sunday-school,  Guilds,  finances, 
Confirmations,  G.  F,  S.— everything  has  gained 
by  it. 

"There  are  losses :  still  behind  in  parish  visit- 
ing; still  too  much  '  busy  over  many  things  ' ; 
still  too  much  on  the  surface  and  too  anxious 
for  numbers. 

"Reading?  Allen's 'Continuity  '  once  more, 
Palmer's  'Odyssey,'  James's  'Will  to  Believe,' 
Lowell's  Poems,  Kipling,  Kenneth  Grahame's 
'Golden  Age'  (beautiful:   get  it),  etc. 

To  another  he  wrote:  ''Quo  Vadisf  The  Lord 
brought  a  sickness  upon  me,  neuralgia  of  the 
stomach  and  'overwork',  that  I  might  read 
this  glorious  book.  It  filled  me  with  preaching 
material,  and  above  all  with  a  fresh  realization 
of  the  beautiful  spirit  of  Christianity.  It  some- 
how gave  me  my  reckoning  once  more — told 
me  the  true  polemic — that  Christ  best  recom- 
mends Himself  by  what  He  is  and  by  the  sweet- 
ness and  love  which  He  alone  in  all  history  has 
been  able  to  inspire  in  men.  Thank  you  for 
suggesting  it  to  me." 

"Have  you  seen  notice  of  Daniels's  sudden 


THE  SECOND    YEAR  IN  BOSTON          8 1 

death?  "  he  wrote  again.  "He  was  a  good  fel- 
low. I  always  felt  safe  with  him  at  the  Advent. 
I  am  awfully  sorry.  Mr.  Parks  has  resigned 
the  archdeaconry.  The  Bishop  is  finer,  finest. 
My  basement  is  to  be  extended.  Tell  me  care- 
fully who  would  be  a  good  assistant  for  me. 
Must  be  good  worker,  fond  of  boys  and  the 
poor.  Tell  me  instanter.  Finis:  I've  got  to 
shovel  the  paths." 

Meantime,  he  was  serving  (as  only  he  could 
serve)  old  friends  whom  he  had  known  for 
years.  "Why  do  you  write  so  many  letters, 
when  you  are  so  frightfully  driven  ? "  a  parish- 
ioner asked  him  one  day.  "  Because,"  he 
answered,  "only  so  can  I  keep  close  to  my 
old  friends.  I  can't  go  to  see  them ;  I  must 
write.  I  have  friends  that  I  love  so  much  I 
could  just  eat  them  up  for  the  love  I  bear 
them." 

The  spring  of  1897  one  of  his  high-minded 
friends  left  a  home  of  comfort  to  seek  his  for- 
tune in  the  West.  He  was  a  disciple  of  Henry 
George  and  was  eager  to  make  the  world  right 
as  soon  as  possible.  Atkinson,  being  himself  a 
Christian  Socialist  of  the  sort  of  Maurice  and 
Kingsley,  loved  him  not  only  for  his  long  per- 
6 


82  EDWARD  UNCOLN  ATKINSON 

sonal  friendship,  but  for  the  ardent  daring  of 
these  later  days. 

"Kansas!  That's  what  interests  me,"  he 
wrote.  "I  hope,  in  spite  of  some  uncongenial 
things  which  one  has  to  meet  in  some  form 
everywhere — even  in  Boston — you  are  going 
to  find  it  to  your  liking.  .  .  .  Do  not  wait 
to  look  around  too  much.  You  are  now  like 
the  hero  of  Kipling's  last  story :  dropped  into 
a  place  where  you  are  going  to  take  hold,  not- 
withstanding a  soft  bringing  up.  And  it's  a 
hero  you'll  be.     I  am  proud  already." 

Several  weeks  later  he  wrote:  "Your  letters 
are  fast  attaining  the  continued-in-our-next 
pitch  of  excitement  of  the  story  papers.  Do 
keep  4t  up,  old  man.  I  cannot  help  thinking 
of  somebody  or  other's  'Postals  to  my  Son,'  in 
which  you  learned  the  father's  vicissitudes  in 
the  West  by  the  varying  tone  the  different 
epistles  took  on.  So  your  busted  balloon  is  to 
become  a  flying-machine  bound  for  Arizona. 
The  science  is  all  in  the  landing,  as  Darius 
Green  told  us  long  ago.  Here's  hoping  you 
may  come  down  with  grace  and  unbroken 
bones. 

"I  believe  you're  coming  out  all  right.    Your 


THE  SECOND    YEAR  IN  BOSTON         83 

letters  sound  brave  and  happy  in  spite  of 
tragic  details.  I  am  sure  you  will  soon  get  on 
the  right  track.  It  fills  me  with  great  hopes 
still  to  think  of  you  'out  there'  carving  out 
your  fortune.  It's  a  shock  to  learn  that  for- 
tune's nuggets  are  not  buried  in  mild  cheese 
or  soft  soap.  I  suppose  your  hard,  uninterest- 
ing Rockies  are  a  symbol  of  what's  got  to  be 
overcome  and  a  token  likewise  of  the  grit  and 
firmness  necessary  thereto. 

"I  like  the  $200.00  paper — lay  reader — little 
town  in  Arizona  idea.  You  put  things  so 
charmingly  every  time  that  I  get  hypnotized. 
So  go  it  alone,  but  reckon  always  on  heaps  of 
love  from  me — and  an  unlimited  confidence  and 
belief — for  what  they  are  worth.     .     .     . 

"Boston  is  quite  itself  this  spring.  Still  go- 
ing to  lectures  and  recitals  and  getting  nothing 
done.  I  am  as  always  very  busy  and  happy 
and  thin.  I  love,  and  broaden  my  love,  I 
trust,  more  and  more  as  the  days  go  on.  If  I 
don't,  may  I  curl  up  and  die." 

A  fortnight  later,  another  letter  started : 
"First  let  me  tell  you  that  I  have  been  to  Con- 
cord and  had  a  most  delightful  sojourn  with 
your  mother  and  sister.     I  did  not  make  the 


84  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

best  appearance,  because  just  as  I  crossed  the 
bridge  a  small  cloudburst  overtook  me.  The 
cloud  was  small,  but  the  burst  was  huge,  so, 
though  I  sprinted  for  the  house,  I  arrived 
drenched  to  the  skin.  But  their  good  atten- 
tions soon  put  me  to  rights  again,  and  we  spent 
hours  in  discussing  and  loving  you. 

"I  learned  of  your  experience  at  Phoenix — 
saw  a  copy  of  the  paper,  and  was  charmed  by 
your  successful  efforts  at  doing  what  the  PhcE- 
nixians  do  when  you  are  at  Phoenix.  To-day 
I  learn  from  your  mother  that  your  hopes  are 
in  ashes  once  more  and  that  you  are  looking 
for  another  kind  of  Phoenix.  ...  I  would 
try  the  Pacific,  from  Los  Angeles  up  to  Ta- 
coma,  before  giving  up.  Every  experience  is 
making  it  easier  to  stand  the  vulgarity  and 
cheapness  and  to  be  keen  for  the  right  opening, 
if  any  such  thing  exists  for  you  in  that  £1 
Dorado.  Don't  give  up  yet  awhile,  old  boy. 
The  joys  of  the  East  will  keep  till  you  return  to 
them.  ...  I  wish  you  could  be  here  for 
the  Shaw  Memorial.  If  I  go,  I  shall  be  all  eyes 
and  ears  for  us  both.  My  life  is  the  same 
happy  plodding  you  know." 

From  his  summer  holiday  in  July  he  wrote 


THE   SECOND    YEAR  IN  BOSTON  8$ 

again:  "I  was  awfully  glad  to  get  you  let- 
ter. Lucky  it  came  before  the  gold  find  on 
the  Yukon,  else  I  should  have  pictured  you 
there.     .     .     . 

"So  you  are  at  Milwaukee.  I  am  here  in 
the  woods  and  mountains  not  far  from  Cho- 
corua.  Your  uncle  William  wrote  me  in  June 
to  take  some  of  my  vacation  with  them  there ; 
I  wanted  to  go,  but  I  was  afraid  I  should  have 
to  be  on  my  intellectual  good-behavior.  I 
needed  the  restful  quiet  of  less  psychological 
palaces.  I  prefer  August  to  July  as  a  vaca- 
tion, so  do  the  other  clergy  of  Emmanuel. 
Therefore  I  had  the  choice  of  giving  them  Aug- 
ust and  taking  July,  or  of  taking  July  and  giv- 
ing them  August.  You  see  where  such  freedom 
of  choice  lands  a  fellow.  It  landed  me  here  in 
Freedom,  N.  H.,  (no  pun  intended,)  on  the  day 
before  the  Fourth. 

"Keep  your  courage,  old  boy.  The  patience 
you  need  has  sprouted." 

After  returning  from  his  holiday  in  August, 
Atkinson  wrote:  "Such  has  been  the  rush  of 
things  since  I  returned  that  I  feel  like  a  mag- 
net set  upon  by  innumerable  iron  filings.  I 
wish  I  could  get  demagnetized. 


86  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

"Your  letter  warms  my  heart  and  stirs  my 
enthusiasm.  But  I  am  not  so  sure  of  your 
proposition.  .  .  .  If  it  means  working  day 
and  night  in  back-lots  and  among  humble  peo- 
ple, and  its  main  effort  is  to  get  something 
done,  I  say  go  it.  But  if  it  means  your  chief 
work  is  being  an  agitator  and  'talker' — just 
putting  a  new  creed  on  the  market — I  say  hesi- 
tate. Has  the  movement  men  of  will  as 
against  emotions  and  vocabularies,  men  who 
themselves,  single-handed,  will  resolve  upon 
a  course  and  immediately  show  those  who  care 
to  look  that  they  have  started  out  upon  it? 
I  believe  Debs  is  a  worker.  In  that  he  is 
greater  than  Henry  George.  Bryan  is  a  worker. 
F ,  Bellamy,  all  of  us  Easterners,  fail  some- 
how to  incarnate  our  principles  into  action.  If 
you  can  act,  I  say  God  bless  you  and  let  you  go 
— to  become  a  god  too.  The  heathen  were 
right — the  gods  rain  and  thunder.  They  do 
things. 

' '  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  be  more  definite.  Don't 
think  I  am  afraid  of  fanaticism.  I'm  only 
afraid  of  inaction.  Let  somebody  die  game, 
as  John  Brown  died.  The  sheriff  said  to  him 
at  the  scaffold,  'You're  a  pretty  game  man, 


THE  SECOND    YEAR  IN  BOSTON         8/ 

Captain  Brown.'  'Yes,'  was  the  reply,  'so 
my  mother  brought  me  up.'  Lovejoy  and  W. 
L.  Garrison  were  cranks.  Success  only  made 
them  (in  the  world's  eyes)  heroes.  I  wish  we 
could  make  success  a  duty.  If  you  go  into  it, 
you  must  be  willing  to  succeed  the  way  Brown 
did — and  that  means  being  a  fanatic  and  'game' 
to  the  end — which  often  is  appropriately 
death." 

A  few  days  later  another  long  letter  sped  on 
its  way:  "Your  two  magnificent  letters  are 
here,"  he  began,  "and  I  have  read  and  re-read. 

Oh, ,  old  man,  come  into  the  ministry.   It's 

not  a  palace,  many  are  the  cracks  in  the  roof, 
much  is  the  rubbish  on  the  floor.  But  it's  a 
place  for  work — a  place  for  dying  'game.' 
'Where  love  is,'  etc.  Come.  It's  the  same 
profession  Jesus  took.  Man  can  live  and  die 
like  Him  in  it  still.  It  is  a  platform  for  all 
the  dearest  hopes  and  highest  ideals  of  men. 
Come,  study  for  it,  be  ordained — then  think 
how  much  you  can  do,  what  blows  you  can 
strike,  for  a  cause  like  that  of  the  Social  Demo- 
cratic Movement.     .     .     . 

"The  world  is  tired  of  voices  in  the  wil- 
derness.    You  must  have  your  hand   on  the 


88  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

plough,  before  the  tongue  can  speak  and  be 
listened  to. 

That's  why  I'm  in  Clifton  Place.  That's 
why  I  can't  imitate  so  many  agitators  who  just 
agitate  the  air.  Things — houses,  carts,  streets, 
men,  institutions — must  be  shaken.  And  you 
can't  be  much  to  them  unless  you  somehow 
get  into  them.  Perhaps  it  oughtn't  to  be  so, 
but  as  a  minister,  in  a  Church,  in  the  name  of 
Christ — the  world  being  as  it  is  at  the  end  of 
the  19th  century — one  can  get  down  to  the 
heart  of  things.  That  is,  if  one  wishes  (not 
wears  a  uniform  and  keeps  proclaiming  how 
holy  and  broad-clothy  one  is)  and  tries. 

"I  sincerely  believe  the  Church's  creden- 
tials help  to  all  this.  People  want  credentials 
— the  voice  of  one  speaking  with  authority. 
The  Church's  reality  may  be  very  muddy  and 
weedy,  but  the  ideal  is  noble  and  of  heaven. 
In  the  name  of  that  ideal,  let's  work.  I  chal- 
lenge you  to  show  me  any  man  or  institution 
which  has  pointed  so  truly  and  holds  so  per- 
sistently to  the  Good,  True  and  Beautiful  as 
Christ  and  His  Church. 

"So, dear,  stop  being  a  failure.     Get  a 

sheet  anchor.     Fasten  to  the  biggest  and  most 


CLIFTON  PLACE  IN  BOSTON.  MR.  ATKINSON  LIVED  IN  THE 
FIRST  HOUSE  ON  THE  RIGHT,  WITH  THE  WIDE  AWNING 
OVER  THE  DOOR 


A  CORNER  OF  MR.  ATKINSON'S  STUDY  AT  CLIFTON  PLACE  IN 
BOSTON.  HERE  HE  RECEIVED  HIS  PARISHIONERS  AND 
FRIENDS 


THE  SECOND    YEAR  IN  BOSTON  89 

excellent  thing  you  know.  Get  a  firm  founda- 
tion. Make  a  mark.  Have  a  trade.  Cut 
loose  from  Blue  Hill  kites  and  the  like.  Stick 
to  the  vulgar  and  horrid,  for  there  is  the  divine. 
Remember  the  awfulness  of  no  profession.     I 

love  you,   ,  oh,  so   affectionately — so   I 

speak  nothing  but  sincerity. 

"When  my  time  comes,  God  willing,  I  shall 
be  worth  something  in  the  fight.  Why?  Be- 
cause I  dared  to  take  the  Church's  wrong  and 
the  Ministry's  weakness  for  the  hope  of  getting 
the  pure  metal  of  hope  and  love  and  God  which 
I  believe  is  buried  there.  I  may  fail.  I  cer- 
tainly shall  only  do  little.  But  they'll  not  call 
me  a  rolling  stone,  a  wanderer,  a  visionary,  a 
spiritual  adventurer.  They  will  say : '  He  took 
things  as  they  were  and  tried  to  make  them  as 
they  ought  to  be — took  things  as  they  were. 

"Even  to  fly  kites,  you  have  got  to  stand  on 

land.     So,  ,  soul  of  my  soul,  come  to  try 

the  footing  I've  found.  .  .  .  The  Church 
is  the  solution.  I've  thought  so  all  along,  but 
was  afraid  you'd  think  my  judgment  narrow 
and  biassed.  It's  the  whither,  whence  and 
how.  It  gathers  all  the  other  answers  up  and 
holds  to  what  is  good  in  them.     Go.     Be  brave 


90  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

and  patient.  Win  the  profession.  Then  come 
and  we'll  strike  together.  It's  not  long.  Do 
consent.     .     .     . 

"The  hope  in  which  we  parted  will  bloom 
and  blossom  now.  Oh,  the  future!  It  is  so 
full  and  bright.  God  is  with  you,  the  Man 
Jesus  is  with  you,  the  Spirit  leads  aright.  .  .  . 
Oh,  the  joy  there  will  be  among  the  angels  of 
my  heaven  when  you  say  you  have  determined 
on  the  Ministry." 

Profoundly  moved,  the  man  could  but  gaze 
at  such  a  life  as  Atkinson  had  sketched  for  him. 
But  he  felt  that  his  work  lay  elsewhere.  At- 
kinson was  disappointed,  but  he  acceded  to  a 
clear  conscience:  "I  am  sure  now  that  you  are 
at  work,"  he  wrote  a  few  weeks  later,  "and 
— I  suppose  you  are  right:  the  land  you  oc- 
cupy is  a  trysting  place.    Clough  was,  is,  right: 

•  And  not  by  eastern  windows  only 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light, 
In  front  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly. 
But  westward — look  I — the  land  is  bright.' 

I  hope  'the  land  is  bright*  out  there;  for  the 
East,  Clough's  other  lines  seem  truer: 

.    .     .     •  The  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking. 
Seem  here  no  trivial  inch  to  gain.' 


THE  SECOND    YEAR  IN  BOSTON         9 1 

"Canon  Gore  is  coming  in  October  to  stir  up 
the  Church  Social  Union,  and  I  am  hoping  for 
inspiration  to  come  with  him  to  us  all. 

"My  work  is  still  the  great  opportunity 
of  my  lifetime,  and  I  am  happy  in  the  fight. 

,  I  believe  more  and  more  in  the  Christian 

solution — not  Christian,  but  Christ.  It  would 
be  pretty  hard,  if  it  weren't  for  Christ.  He  did 
it,  and  we  can:  lose  our  lives  to  save  them  and 
others.  The  philosophy  is  simple.  Each  man 
to  work  until  he  drops,  giving  his  life  vicari- 
ously, until  the  whole  world  has  given  itself 
for  all  the  world  but  itself — a  strange  paradox 
but  a  simple  philosophy — and  out  of  it  comes 
Love  and  the  great  Awakening  which  is  Eternal 
Life.  Yes,  cling  to  Christ,  the  example  of 
Christ.  The  marvellous  thing  is  that  Christ 
came  back  to  life  again.  In  that  He  was,  is, 
unique.  So  there  is  a  Church,  and  a  Religion, 
and  a  Christianity.  But,  after  all,  that's  the 
reward  side  of  it  all.  It  tells  us:  'Yes,  give, 
give,  and  you  will  get  it  back. '  Resurrections 
are  marvellous  and,  like  dreams  and  supernat- 
ural things,  they  make  religions.  But  where 
I  love  Christ  most  is  on  the  other  side  of  Cal- 
vary; when  it  was  all  hazard  and  He  was  a 


92  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

man  and  God  because  He  did  so  much,  dared 
so  much;  gave  up  His  life  without  counting 
on  any  other  victory  than  the  one  which  would 
be  His  only  when  it  would  be  all  mankind's. 
So  won't  it  indeed  be  an  awakening  when  all 
the  great  dear  men  of  the  world  fighting  the 
enemy  will  suddenly  look  neighbors  in  the  face 
and  say,  'I  was  trying  to  win  for  you — and  the 
neighbor  to  say,  '  I  was  fighting  iox you  *  ?  Then 
it  will  be  the  Kingdom  of  God.  The  enemy 
will  disappear  almost  as  if  there  never  had  been 
an  enemy — of  course,  there  was  an  enemy,  a 
real  one,  but  his  name  was  'All-the-Fun-I-can 
get-for-Myself,'  and  the  other  fellow,  whose 
name  was  '  All  -  the  -  Good  - 1  -  can  -  do  -  for  -  my- 
Neighbor,'  included  him  in  the  Kingdom  of 
God  too.  So  there  was  no  place  of  'poor 
damned  souls.' 

"Well,  I  must  stop.  Theology  seems  like 
coffee  when  I  get  a-thinking  in  a  certain  way 
and  my  conceited  brain  insists  on  being  fish- 
skin  and  clearing  it  all  up. 

"Well,  the  last  word  of  this  and  every 
thought  and  hope  I  have  for  you  is  Love.  So 
there  we'll  leave  it." 


CHAPTER    VII 

THE  THIRD  YEAR  IN  BOSTON 

VERY  early  in  his  work  in  Boston  Atkin- 
son saw  need  of  three  things:  a  parish 
house,  an  assistant  minister  and  an  enlarge- 
ment of  the  church-building.  In  the  fall  of 
1897  Emmanuel  House  was  established  at 
1900  Washington  Street,  three  doors  from 
the  Church  of  the  Ascension.  The  work 
which  had  formerly  been  done  in  the  base- 
ment of  the  church  was  transferred  to  this 
more  convenient  building  and  accordingly 
much  enlarged.  Atkinson's  labors  were  in- 
creased, but  his  heart  was  lighter:  work 
he  longed  to  do  was  getting  done.  There 
were  in  the  house  a  gymnasium,  a  carpentry 
shop,  a  shoe-mending  shop,  a  library,  class- 
rooms, an  assembly  room,  a  laundry,  a  dining 
room  and  a  kitchen.  There  were  two  Boys* 
Clubs:  the  Fair  Play  Club  for  little  boys;  the 
Emmanuel  House  Boys'  Club   for  older  fel- 


94  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

lows.  The  little  girls  had  a  sunshine  club ;  the 
older  girls  were  members  of  the  Girls'  Friendly 
Society.  There  were  a  Choral  Society,  art 
classes  and  temperance  societies.  All  these 
were  in  addition  to  the  conventional  guilds 
found  in  all  parishes.  About  one  hundred  vol- 
unteer helpers  assisted  Atkinson  in  the  work. 
They  came  chiefly  from  Emmanuel  Church, 
then  from  the  student  body  at  Harvard.  Bos- 
ton University,  the  Boston  Normal  School,  the 
Normal  Art  School  and  the  New  England  Con- 
servatory also  sent  helpers.  It  was  the  centre 
of  the  most  thorough  institutional  work  in 
Boston.  Yet  when  invited  to  speak  on  insti- 
tutional work  before  the  Episcopalian  Club, 
Atkinson  said  sharply  that  he  merely  endured 
institutional  work.  He  lived  for  one  thing, 
and  that  was  his  Sunday  morning  service. 
If  people  were  enthusiastic  about  coming  to 
church,  they  were  apt  to  be  safe,  body  and 
soul.  If  they  were  indifferent  to  it,  religion 
was  apt  to  be  dead  in  them.  He  ridiculed 
"consecrated  shower-baths";  he  objected  to 
the  pompous  boast  of  other  speakers  that  they 
had  "leading  bankers,"  "leading  society  peo- 
ple,"  engaged   in   their  mission  work.     The 


THE    THIRD    YEAR  IN  BOSTON  95 

principle  was  only  in  a  man's  ability  to  help 
his  brother;  he  was  to  be  praised  for  that  gra- 
cious help,  not  for  the  station  he  held  in  the 
world's  eye.  "For,"  he  concluded,  "if  you 
get  your  eye  close  enough,  you'll  find  there 
are  no  slums  in  Boston."  He  was  not  dazzled 
by  the  buzz  and  hum  of  work-a-day  activity 
about  the  Church  of  the  Ascension.  He  was 
thinking  about  the  silent  growth  of  Chris- 
tian character,  expressing  itself  in  wider  love 
for  men  and  God ;  and  for  that  alone  he  cared. 
Early  in  the  fall  of  1897  he  wrote  to  a  friend 
who  felt  that  Atkinson  ought  to  be  getting 
away  to  a  field  where  he  could  influence  more 
people  with  his  appeal  to  the  mind:  "I  am 
dreadfully  afraid,"  he  said, "that  you  and  I  dif- 
fer as  to  the  hard  work  of  the  ministry  in  these 
times.  I  doubt  if  it  is  the  intellect  of  the  wise 
and  well-to-do.  I  know  the  wise  and  well-to-do 
are  more  easily  led  religiously  than  the  people 
I  have  to  do  with.  Here  is  prejudice  and 
misunderstanding  and  wilfulness.  To  live  here 
consistently,  as  I  aspire  (but  have  failed  so  far), 
seems  to  me,  as  I  face  it  day  after  day,  much 
more  difficult  than  any  other  crusade  I  see 
opportunity  for.     Frank,  honest  ways  are  fear- 


96  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

fully  necessary  here.  All  others  lead  to  ruin 
and  the  grave.  It  is  the  realness  of  the  fight 
which  makes  it  so  interesting  here  and  so  worth 
the  trying.  I  tell  you,  however,  I  often  ache 
for  the  other  battle  you  describe.  I  know  its 
hazards,  too,  and  what  its  weapons  must  be. 
When  my  time  is  come,  I  hope  the  Lord  will 
let  me  try  a  little  of  it.  Here  I  confess  brick- 
bats and  pitchforks  seem  often  more  at  hand 
than  blade  and  bullet,  and  after  much  handling 
of  the  awkward  weapons  you  yearn  for  the 
sharp,  clean  work  of  the  keener  tools.  But, 
dear  boy,  it's  all  one  warfare.  The  Lord  of 
Hosts  needs  us  all,  and  many  are  the  trysting 
places.     .     .     . 

"I  know  no  news.  I  hope  for  an  assistant. 
Would  you  dare  to  make  a  big  effort  and  get  a 
man  like  Herman  Page  with  me,  or  go  it  with 
a  recent  graduate?    .     .     . 

"The  Bishop  has  just  told  me  by  his  own 
hand  that  he  is  coming  to  me  on  Easter  Sunday 
evening,  and  I  take  it  as  an  omen  of  the  whole 
winter's  work. 

"I  have  got  at  last  to  preaching,  quite  like 
myself,  without  notes  at  all,  at  all.  It  depends, 
I  find,  upon  the  preparation.     Of  course  you 


THE   THIRD    YEAR  IN  BOSTON  9/ 

know  that,  but gave  me  the  impression  it 

depended  on  the  inspiration  of  the  occasion — 
good  congregation,  nice  weather,  feast  day, 
etc.  If  I  have  my  material  and  the  sequence 
well  in  hand,  I  find  the  words  take  care  of  them- 
selves. And  there  is  no  doubt  of  the  effec- 
tiveness, is  there?  Even  the  illustrations  come 
of  themselves  and  the  practical  bearing;  and 
the  funny  thing  is  that  when  I  feel  a  little  stuck 
salvation  comes  not  in  embellishing  what  I 
have  said  already,  but  escaping  to  another  idea 
(though  sometimes  it  is  a  non-sequitur)." 

About  this  time  he  confessed  to  Carroll: 
"I'm  awfully  poor;  spend  too  much  in  my  work 
— some  months  40  per  cent.     I'm  going  to  stop. 

"Kipling  is  meat  and  drink  to  me.  James's 
'Will  to  Believe'  is  fine." 

October  found  him  in  Buffalo  at  the  Conven- 
tion of  the  St.  Andrew's  Brotherhood.  "Oh, 
Ned,"  he  wrote  to  another  friend,  "I  was  at 
Buffalo.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  sight:  1,400 
men  all  letting  their  lights  shine;  all  manly 
and  boldly  asserting  the  Christ  rule  of  Faith 
and  Love.  .  .  .  The  last  minute  Mr.  Parks 
dropped  fatness  upon  me — worth  $50.00,  and 
off  I  went ;  he  made  me  go,  though  I  thought 
7 


98  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

I  had  not  the  time.  ...  It  has  put  new 
firmness  and  confidence  into  me.  We  are  all 
right,  Ned.  We  are  on  the  right  track.  Jacob 
Riis  said  these  'Politicians  are  awfully  afraid 
Christians  will  live  up  to  their  religion ' ; '  The 
masses  trim  their  sails  to  the  prevailing  winds, 
we  must  make  the  winds' ;  'The  "boss"  follows 
the  path  of  the  majority,  we  must  blaze  the 
path  for  them*;  '  "Charity  covereth  a  multi- 
tude of  sins" — yes,  indeed  it  does — what  we 
want  is  to  get  them  uncovered*;  '  "Love  one 
another,"  yes,  that's  the  right  remedy,  only 
sometimes  it  seems  as  if  the  prescription  had 
been  lost. '  Canon  Gore  said,  '  Trusts,  perhaps, 
are  providential,  for  it's  easier  to  cut  ofl  few 
heads  than  many.'  Canon  Gore  was  against 
'cheap  optimism,'  'competition,'  said  the  self- 
made  man  was  made  chiefly  by  society,  only 
about  a  tenth  self-made.  Gore  is  on  our  side. 
Oh,  but  there  is  a  lot  that's  not  in  the  St.  A.'s 
Brotherhood — still  talking  glittering  generali- 
ties— not  willing  to  puncture  the  present  order 
with  consistent  living.     .     .     . 

"My  work  never  rang  truer,  and  barring  my 
own  black  heart  there  is  not  a  shadow  upon  it." 

To  a  discouraged  friend  he  wrote  this  fall: 


THE    THIRD    YEAR  IN  BOSTON  99 

' '  Oh,  come,  and  talk  it  over  in  this  hut  of  mine ! 
Love  and  ideals  shall  make  it  a  palace — shall 
make  it  one  of  the  stones  on  which  may  rise 
some  of  the  walls  and  high  towers  of  the  City 
of  God,  ...  I  am  sorry  for  the  set-backs, 
but  they  must  come;  they  are  like  the  mumps 
and  the  measles  of  our  boyhood,  somehow 
necessary  to  our  growing  to  be  men.  As  for 
not  being  understood,  youth  never  is  by  its 
elders — especially  if  they  are  relations.  As 
for  the  rampant  brother  editor,  kill  him  as  St. 
George  killed  the  dragon,  and  liberate  the  land. 
It's  a  rough  business,  but  you  must  do  it: 
don't  have  dragons  around  your  horse's  feet. 
"As  far  as  I  can  see,  Christ  leading  me, 
there  is  but  one  way  for  the  world  to  come  out 
— His  way.  Suns  rise  and  set  for  it  to  come 
so ;  men  are  born  and  die  for  it  alone ;  the 
spiritual  follows  the  natural,  the  unseen  the 
seen,  the  ideal  the  real,  in  perfect  prophecy  of 
victory.  I  propose  to  be  on  that  side.  It's  a 
calling  in  which  allowances  are  made  for  the 
weakness  of  the  flesh  and  the  non-accomplish- 
ment of  impossibilities.  Physical  energy  may 
fail,  men  may  cease  to  help,  the  world  may 
harden  its  heart,  but  God  will  lead  His  endeav- 


100         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

orers  to  ultimate  victory — a  victory  which 
would  be  denied  even  Him  but  for  the  pressing 
forward  of  such  as  we  toward  the  mark." 

To  one  of  his  Springfield  boys  he  wrote: 
"Poor  Newell — I  think  of  him  a  lot.  What 
fine  things  he  said  in  his  diary:  'The  sun  went 
down  like  a  god  bowing  his  head ' ; '  Make  Thou 
me  pure  and  clean  as  the  frosty  stars.'  " 

Again,  to  a  boy  expecting  to  enter  Harvard: 
"There  are  no  bath-rooms  in  any  of  the  Yard 
dormitories.  You  bathe  only  in  the  vacations ; 
saves  time,  soap  and  many  other  things." 

To  the  same  boy  he  wrote  again:  "I  know 
of  people  who  work  too  hard  and  get  very 
much  run  down  in  consequence.  There's  a 
fellow  living  at  i  Clifton  Place  who  has  to  take 
tonics  because  he  tackles  too  much.  He's  a 
fool  and  doesn't  know  any  better.  You  are 
wise — get  A's  and  all  that ;  so  do  not  be  fool- 
ish.    Let  up.     .     .     . 

"You  are  humble.  Keep  so.  He  is  the 
hero  who  achieves  much  but  acts  and  carries 
himself  as  if  he  did  little.  You  are  doing  well, 
but  I  cannot  resist  warning  you  against  the 
only  fault  (vanity)  which  would  spoil  it  all." 

Atkinson  was  making  the  effort  to  get  an 


THE    THIRD    YEAR  IN^  BOSTON         lOI 

assistant,  but  the  men  who  were  called  were 
not  free  to  come,  and  with  the  exception  of 
three  months,  when  his  friend  Bennett  came 
to  his  aid,  he  was  alone  for  another  year.  The 
strain  was  severe. 

"One  word  of  sincerest  love,"  he  wrote  in 
February,  1898,  "before  I  go  under.  I  do 
love  you,  and  it  is  joy  and  peace  to  me.  But 
I  am  working  too  hard,  and  cannot  help  it. 
What  shall  I  do?  It  is  fun — I  cannot  com- 
plain. It  is  walking  with  Christ — I  can  only 
thank  God.  But  it  is  fasting  to  one  hungry, 
nakedness  to  one  almost  in  rags.  Oh,  for  a 
wild,  devilish  vacation  of  feasting  and  fine 
raiment !  No,  my  love  for  you  and  Man  and 
The  Man  tells  me  I  am  already  in  palaces 
and  at  tables  bending  with  bounty — and  I  am 
glad. 

"You  love  a  fair  woman.  Shall  I  not  re- 
joice with  you?  I  do.  Bless  you,  old  boy, 
and  do  not  give  up.  Do  not  grow  to  be  the 
lonely  old  man  I  am.  .  .  .  She  is  a  beau- 
tiful soul — noble,  simple,  Greek.  I  yearn  that 
you  may  win  her." 

One  of  his  parishioners  with  the  right  spirit 
was  anxious  to  do  the  work  of  the  ministry. 


102  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

He  was  working  his  way  through  Mt.  Hermon, 
and  Atkinson  was  trying  to  get  for  him  work 
under  one  of  the  missionary  bishops,  that  he 
might  continue  his  study  and  work  at  the  same 
time.  "I  have  j  ust  written,  "he  said, ' '  to  seven 
missionary  bishops,  and  you'd  better  begin  to 
pack.  I  can't  tell  you  whether  you  will  land 
in  Southern  Texas  or  at  Circle  City,  or  whether 
you  will  have  negroes,  Indians,  Esquimaux  or 
plain  white  people  to  teach.     .     .     . 

"I  hope  you  got  Mr.  Moody's  carpets  up 
and  down  to  his  liking.  Doubtless  on  that 
one  event  alone  depended  the  success  of  his 
New  York  mission,  so  closely  are  all  the  events 
of  a  great  man's  life  linked  together.  I  am 
not  sure  that  this  is  sound  philosophy,  but  I 
fancy  it  is  Mr.  Moody's." 

The  summer  of  1898  Atkinson  spent  in  New 
Hampshire.  "I  have  been  on  a  two  months' 
vacation,"  he  wrote  to  one  of  his  old  friends. 
"My  work — you  know  the  spirit  in  which  I 
speak — has  become  elephantine.  The  Bishop 
tells  about  that  he  had  to  begin  service  before 
the  time  because  no  more  people  could  get  in 
and  that  E.  L.  A.  is  working  himself  to  death. 
Dr.  Donald  and  the  Rev.   F.   T.   have  each 


THE    THIRD    YEAR  IN  BOSTON         IO3 

lately  gone  out  of  his  way  to  praise  me,  and 
I  bask  in  the  sweet  smiles  of  L.  P.  With  the 
Parish  House,  all  this  progress  of  the  barometric 
kind  has  come.  The  world,  sick  for  results, 
can  see,  feel,  hear  and  smell  Boys*  Clubs,  Art 
Classes,  Cooking  Schools,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  But 
you  do  not  fool  the  little  fellow  himself — the 
mouse  in  the  mastodon.  You  know  from  your 
own  experience,  however,  the  secret  joy  and 
affection  which  is  coming  up  like  the  leaven  hid 
in  the  meal,  from  the  people  themselves,  and 
how  after  all  we  labor  for  the  best  things  not  in 
vain. 

"I  am  spending  hours  here  on  the  Lake  and 
in  tramping  and  riding.  The  rest  of  the  time 
is  given  to  fine  books.  I  had  to  give  up  the 
harder  work  I  planned — like  going  over  certain 
epistles  and  certain  philosophical  works  in  Uni- 
versity style — and  take  to  easier  things.  Had 
to,  I  mean,  when  I  appealed  to  common  sense. 
So  voilk:  Koestlin's  Luther,  Michelet's  ditto, 
Villari's  Savonarola,  Hell  and  Purgatory  in  • 
Norton's  Dante,  Keats  and  Shelley  {every 
word),  Stedman's  Nature  of  Poetry  (3d  vol.). 
The  Ring  and  the  Book,  Fisher's  Reformation, 
Romola,The  Newcomes,  and  little  more.     It 


104         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

has  been  a  rich  treat,  and  I  have  tried  to  do  it 
in  the  right  spirit.     .     .     . 

"P.  S.  Not  a  word  of  war,  and  I  have  al- 
ready lost  dear  friends  and  have  others  in  jeop- 
ardy." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  FOURTH   YEAR   IN   BOSTON 

THE  fall  of  1898  brought  two  satisfactions 
to  Atkinson's  personal  living.  The  first 
was  the  discovery  of  a  remarkable  housekeeper, 
who,  with  mature  judgment  and  an  unselfish- 
ness equal  to  Atkinson's  own,  made  the  house 
in  Clifton  Place  a  real  home.  The  lower  floor 
of  the  house  was  now  converted  into  a  pleasant 
dining-room  and  a  room  where  people  could 
await  their  time  to  see  Atkinson  in  his  study. 
One  of  his  friends  who  had  been  coming  to  the 
Ascension  for  some  time  graciously  selected 
for  him  his  dishes  and  table  linen.  "He  gave 
me  a  sum  of  money,"  she  said,  "and  asked  me 
to  buy  all  the  linen  he  needed  for  the  breakfast 
and  lunch  table.  It  was  such  fun.  I  hunted 
through  the  shops  and  planned  to  get  all  I  con- 
sidered necessary  for  dainty  living;  and  when 
all  were  laundered  and  ready,  he  came  out,  and 
such  fun  as  we  had  looking  the  things  over! 


lo6         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

He  carried  all  home  in  a  big  box  absolutely 
radiant  over  the  prospect  of  living  with  the 
small  comforts  and  refinements  of  life  down- 
stairs that  he  had  always  had  about  him  up- 
stairs— after  all  these  years  of  putting  up  with 
things  and  going  out  to  most  of  his  meals!" 
The  same  friend  gave  him  some  glass  candle- 
sticks; these  always  adorned  his  tiny  dinner- 
table:  "because,"  he  wrote,  "they  are  so  cheer- 
ful ;  they  give  you  a  cozy  feeling  of  gathering 
round  a  fire-side."  His  marriage  fees  were 
often  applied  to  the  enlargement  of  his  domes- 
tic equipment:  his  housekeeper  used  her  judg- 
ment and  good  taste  in  adding  whatever  the 
fees  would  permit.  The  whole  house,  in  spite 
of  its  simplicity,  had  a  certain  air  of  elegance. 
The  brass  knocker  gleamed  on  the  door ;  within, 
the  restful  color  on  the  wall,  the  white  paint, 
the  books,  the  pictures,  the  order  and  dignity 
everywhere,  invited  to  peace;  and  the  dreary 
little  "city  back-yard,"  Atkinson,  by  digging 
and  planting,  had  transformed  into  a  minia- 
ture bower:  great  castor-beans  hid  the  fence 
with  their  grateful  shade;  quaint  flowers  that 
delighted  him  as  a  boy  grew  here  in  profusion 
— candy-tuft, coreopsis,  portulaca,  nasturtiums. 


THE  FOURTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON        lO/ 

It  was  joy  to  him  to  look  out  of  his  bedroom 
window  of  a  summer  morning  to  "see  how 
things  had  grown,"  and  he  would  report  play- 
fully to  those  who  knew,  "My  nasturtiums  are 
doing  well,  but  my  candy-tuft  is  late  this  year." 
All  summer  long  this  garden  furnished  flowers 
for  his  table.  It  was  cheap  living  in  a  very 
humble  street,  but  it  was  all  beautiful  and 
refined.  People  could  see  for  themselves  how 
one  could  be  poor  and  yet  live  well. 

Atkinson's  second  satisfaction  for  this  fall 
of  1898  was  the  coming  of  two  of  his  Spring- 
field boys,  Allen  Rice  and  John  Williams,  to 
be  freshmen  at  Harvard  College.  The  friend- 
ship grew  and  deepened.  "Your  loyalty  to 
me,"  he  wrote  to  Allen  Rice  just  before  the 
term  opened,  "is  a  great  joy,  but  like  all  hap- 
piness, it  has  its  shadows,  and  the  one  here  is 
that  I  am  afraid  you  think  of  me  more  highly 
than  I  may  be  able  always  to  be  equal  to.  Yet 
so  must  life  be:  love  must  always  be  at  work 
painting  its  friends  in  the  colors  and  shapes 
which  affection  alone  thinks  out — and  the  best 
prayer  we  can  offer  is  that  our  loved  ones  may 
be  worthy  of  the  ideals  we  draw  for  them. 

"May  there   never   fall   any  cloud  on  our 


I08  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

friendship ;  may  years  only  make  it  richer  and 
nobler;  and  out  of  it  may  we  learn  to  do  more 
for  others  and  love  them  more,  so  that  at  the 
last  we  may  be  reckoned  among  those  who  left 
the  world  a  little  more  cheerful  for  their  liv- 
ing in  it." 

These  Harvard  friends  not  only  helped  per- 
sonally, they  helped  the  work.  Most  of  all, 
they  helped  in  carrying  to  success  the  large 
boys'  club  of  two  hundred  members.  The  fol- 
lowing year  Marston  Leonard,  another  Spring- 
field boy,  came  to  Harvard,  and  he  with  his 
friends.  Rice  and  Williams,  became  a  constant 
guest  at  "the  Vicarage."  Ordinarily  the  three 
of  them  remained  after  morning  service  to  dine 
with  Atkinson;  Allen  Rice,  without  fail.  At 
the  dinner-table  they  always  talked  over  the 
sermon,  to  Atkinson's  delight.  After  the  even- 
ing service,  where  they  helped  in  the  ushering, 
they  came  again,  often  with  many  others.  The 
cheerful  talk  rested  Atkinson,  weary  with  a 
hard  day's  toil,  and  it  often  lasted  till  mid- 
night. During  the  talk  Miss  Roe,  kindest  of 
housekeepers,  was  wont  to  have  a  supper 
ready  for  them.  Tuesday  evenings,  when 
ten  Harvard  students  managed  the  boys'  club 


THE  FOURTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON       IO9 

at  Emmanuel  House,  Atkinson  always  had  two 
of  the  "managers"  at  dinner.  To  one  of  his 
classmates  who  asked  him  to  look  up  a  boy,  he 
wrote:  "I  am  looking  up  your  fat  friend.  He 
is  a  very  popular  young  man  at  Harvard,  and 
I  am  sure  I  shall  be  quite  flattered  to  have  him 
at  dinner.  I  have  over  thirty  guests  a  month, 
so  you  will  have  to  excuse  any  little  delay.  I 
am  already  on  his  track,  however,  and  will 
soon  have  him." 

During  his  first  year  at  Cambridge,  Allen 
Rice  came  to  Atkinson  to  tell  him  that  he  had 
decided  to  be  confirmed.  Atkinson  was  so 
happy  that  as  soon  as  his  guest  had  gone  he 
wrote  him  a  letter:  "x  +  y  words  to  tell  you 
how  your  words  to-night  settled  one  of  the 
fondest  desires  I  ever  had.  You  cannot  guess 
how  it  satisfies  my  affection  for  you.  To  think 
that,  regardless  of  all  the  cant  on  the  part  of 
Religion  as  a  whole  and  all  the  shortcomings 
of  E.  L.  A.  in  particular,  you  will  come  out 
and  take  the  name  Johnnie  and  I  are  trying  to 
live  up  to,  adds  the  capstone  to  my  long  and 
deep-founded  love  for  you.  I  am  glad,  too, 
chiefest  of  all  for  yourself — not  that  it  saves 
your  soul  (you  could  not  lose  that  if  you  tried). 


no         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

but  because  it  unites  you  to  the  greatest  Ideal 
the  world  has  ever  known  and  makes  you  at 
once  a  member  of  the  highest  calling  there  is 
— a  follower  of  that  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  a  worker 
with  Him  to  bring  in  the  Kingdom  of  God — 
the  only  profession  you  and  Johnnie  and  I, 
physician,  engineer  and  clergyman,  can  hold 
alike  and  together — and  the  only  one  which 
can  keep  us  always  joyous,  tender,  loving, 
brave!" 

Early  in  1899  Arthur  Bumpus  accepted  a  call 
to  become  assistant  minister  at  the  Church  of 
the  Ascension.  Atkinson's  spirits  rose  accord- 
ingly :  this  was  the  second  ideal  he  had  for  his 
parish — the  securing  of  a  permanent  assistant. 
"I  am  in  fine  spirits,"  he  wrote  to  his  brother 
Fred:  "a  nice  letter  from  you,  full  of  your 
good  old  self;  a  ten  dollar  wedding-fee  just  (4 
o'clock)  received ;  Bumpus  hustling,  and  tak- 
ing big  loads  of  work  on  his  great  shoulders ; 
everything  going  well  (best  January  in  every 
way  our  church  ever  knew) ;  and  Eddie  com- 
ing to  dinner.     Here  he  is. 

"Later:  Eddie  sent  love.  We  worked  on 
the  Guardian  accounts;  my  trust  expires  to- 
morrow.   I  am  rushing  to  get  things  so  planned 


THE  FOURTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON        III 

that  Bumpus  has  his  share.  I  have  to  clear  up 
old  jobs.  It  is  fine  to  put  so  much  on  his  side 
of  the  bed.  Chiefly  will  belong  to  him  (I  hold- 
ing only  a  corner  of  the  sheet)  Emmanuel 
House  Classes  and  Clubs,  Sunday-school,  the 
Leaflet,  emergency  cases  and  the  correspond- 
ence involved.  Also  he  will  take  half  of  wel- 
come meetings,  half  of  early  services,  three- 
eighths  of  preaching  and  his  share  of  the 
visiting. 

"Of  course,  my  ideals  have  never  been  lived 
up  to  in  the  work  now  left  to  me.  So  I  shall 
work  as  hard  as  ever,  putting  in  licks  on  that, 
but  with  joy  and  satisfaction  and  sans  impa- 
tience, sans  irritation,  sans  awful  feeling  of 
so  much  left  unattended  to.  On  this  way  of 
working  I  shall  grow  fat. 

"You  can  guess  the  change  by  this:  I  dine 
with  Mr.  Parks  Friday  night;  address  a  Con- 
vention Sunday;  spend  Monday  at  an  Alumni 
meeting  in  Cambridge;  dine  with  the  Holdens 
Monday  evening. 

"Mansfield's  'Cyrano*  is  the  sensation  of 
the  hour  here.  Cheered  and  cheered  to  the 
echo.      I    do    not    believe    I   can    go — seats, 

$2.00. 


112  ED  WARD  LINCOLN  A  TKJNSON 

"I  am  going  to  read.  ...  I  shall  read 
those  things  you  spoke  of." 

On  the  cost  of  hearing  Mansfield  hangs  a 
tale.  Atkinson,  as  soon  as  he  had  received  his 
salary  on  the  first  of  the  month,  at  once  paid 
all  his  bills  and  then  had  what  was  left  for 
charity  and  personal  needs.  The  first  Satur- 
day night  of  this  February,  1899,  ^^^  excited 
messenger,  a  girl,  came  to  tell  Atkinson  that 
her  brother  had  been  arrested :  she  wanted  At- 
kinson to  go  bonds  to  get  the  poor  fellow  out 
over  Sunday.  Atkinson  dropped  his  sermon 
and  was  gone  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Mon- 
day Atkinson  appeared  at  the  trial  and  pleaded 
for  the  man :  he  had  stolen  clothes,  but  it  was 
his  first  offence,  and  his  mother  was  an  old 
parishioner.  The  fine  was  fixed  at  thirty  dol- 
lars, and  Atkinson,  with  seeming  cheerfulness, 
paid  it.  But  he  was  really  rather  blue  when 
he  got  home.  All  his  spending  money  was 
gone  and  there  would  be  no  more  for  a  month. 
And  Mansfield  was  coming,  and  he  did  wish 
to  see  him.  But,  though  for  the  most  part 
the  inconvenience  remained,  he  did  see  Mans- 
field after  all ;  for  a  friend  sent  him  a  ticket. 

He  was  apt  to  go  to  the  theatre  once  or 


THE  FOURTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON        II3 

twice  a  month,  especially  if  he  were  very  worn, 
or  if  there  were  something  especially  fine.  He 
almost  never  went  alone,  but  invited  a  guest 
to  go  with  him.  His  invitations  were  apt  to 
come  at  the  last  minute  and  were  characteris- 
tically informal  if  to  one  of  his  cronies; 

"  24  Oct. 

"  Mr,  Jones,  I  mean  Brown,  I  mean  Smith, 
cannot  go  with  me  to  the  INDIAN  GAME. 
Will  you  go  as  my  guest  ? 

"  Yours  faithfully, 
"  The  Man  with  the  Dough." 

During  the  Sunday  nights  of  Lent  he  always 
had  special  preachers,  and  the  most  distin- 
guished clergy  of  Boston  and  Cambridge  were 
glad  to  come  to  his  aid.  They  always  came 
early  enough  to  have  tea  in  the  Vicarage  be- 
fore the  service,  and  great  was  the  astonish- 
ment often  to  see  the  exquisite  taste  of  all  the 
appointments  in  this  bit  of  a  house  on  a  noisy 
street.  "The  Russian  candle-sticks!"  they 
would  exclaim  to  their  wives  when  they  reached 
home — "the  beautiful  whiteness  and  gleaming 
of  everything  on  the  table — the  droll  pictures 
on  the  wall — the  study  crowded  with  books 
8 


114         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

and  photographs — the  host  so  honest  and  so 
charming  I  "  They  no  longer  smiled  when  At- 
kinson headed  his  letters  "Clifton  Palace." 

The  Church  of  the  Ascension  did  not  min- 
ister simply  to  the  people  about  the  church. 
Dr.  Pratt  was  wandering  up  Washington  Street 
one  hot  Sunday  night  in  August,  and  almost 
inadvertently  dropped  into  the  church.  The 
congregation  was  small,  owing  to  the  heat,  but 
there  was  a  unique  reality  about  all  that  Atkin- 
son said  and  did,  and  there  was  a  response  from 
the  congregation  that  was  almost  thrilling.  So 
he  came  again  and  again ;  and  at  last  Atkinson 
began  to  know  him,  and  each  became  to  the 
other  a  very  dear  friend.  "There  are  friends 
and  friends,"  Atkinson  wrote  to  him  one  day. 
"We  are  always  on  the  watch  for  the  rarer  kind 
— those  who 'understand.'  Those  who  under- 
stand our  work,  our  hopes,  our  efforts,  *mid 
many  and  great  dangers,  ourselves  not  alone 
as  we  shabbily  are,  but  as  we  gloriously  wish 
to  be,  and  some  day,  by  God's  help,  may 
be." 

So,  two  gentlewomen  coming  to  live  in  Dor- 
chester wandered  about  from  parish  to  parish 
till  at  length  one  morning  they  came  to  the 


THE  FOURTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON        11$ 

Church  of  the  Ascension,  and  there  at  last  they 
felt  they  had  the  church  they  had  been  seek- 
ing. Ever  after  they  were  devoted  parishion- 
ers and  helped  the  work  in  many  ways.  It  was 
not  only  the  sermon,  good  as  that  was,  which 
helped.  Atkinson  gave  his  attention  to  each 
detail  of  the  service,  and  with  his  organist,  Mr. 
Shackley,  who  was  in  hearty  sympathy  with 
him,  he  could  carry  out  his  ideas.  He  insisted 
that  the  Venite  should  not  be  droned  out,  and 
the  congregation  so  wet-blanketed  that  the 
Psalter  be  spoiled  beforehand.  "A  choir- 
master's test,"  he  used  to  say,  "should  be 
what  he  can  do,  not  with  the  Te  Deum,  which 
always  goes  well,  but  with  the  Venite.  .  .  . 
I  scandalized  my  congregation  once  by  omit- 
ting the  Venite  for  over  a  month.  My  plea 
was  that  we  should  have  it  back  as  soon  as  we 
were  ready  to  make  a  worthy  use  of  it — that 
there  were  greater  sins  than  breaking  rubrics. 
It  was  refreshing  and  truly  exultemus  Domino 
when  it  was  resumed  in  the  service  again." 

He  was  also  careful  to  choose  the  hymns 
himself.  "  Hymns,"  he  said,  "should  be 
judged  like  the  'Six  Best  Selling  Books,'  by 
actual  trade.     ...     I  keep  a  list  of  hymns 


1 16         ED  WARD  LINCOLN  A  TKINSON 

classified — of  great  favorites,  of  worthies  and 
half  worthies;  and  use  them  in  proportion  of 
ten,  five,  one.  I  regard  it  one  of  the  most 
precious  privileges  the  Church  has  given  me, 
the  canonical  right  to  choose  my  own  hymns. 
I  know  my  rights,  and  shall,  organists  and  arch- 
organists  to  the  contrary,  maintain  them  to  the 
end." 

All  through  the  service,  therefore,  people 
felt  themselves  catching  the  Vicar's  enthusi- 
asm. Every  stranger  remarked  upon  the  roll 
of  the  responses  and  the  spirit  of  such  hymns 
as  "Fight  the  Good  Fight,"  "Ancient  of 
Days,"  "Ten  Thousand  Times  Ten  Thou- 
sand," and  "Oh,  What  the  Joy  and  the  Glory 
Must  Be."  Dr.  Parks  always  said  that  he 
never  heard  "I  Heard  a  Sound  of  Voices"  so 
well  sung  anywhere  else.  And  a  poor  woman 
who  had  worked  in  a  box  factory  for  twenty 
years  was  wont  to  say  that  the  hymns  she 
heard  Sunday  at  the  Ascension  stayed  in  her 
head  all  the  week.  The  sermon  was  part  of 
the  service.  "The  sermon,"  he  said,  "must 
(to  quote  the  boy)  have  a  good  beginning  and 
a  good  ending,  and  not  too  much  middle;  love 
and  sympathy  are  more  convincing  than  syl- 


THE  FOURTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON        II7 

logisms  or  flowers  of  rhetoric ;  and  a  sermon  is 
a  sermon,  and  finds  its  counterpart,  not  in  the 
magazine  article  or  the  lecture,  amusing  or 
academic,  but  in  the  discourses  of  the  great 
company  of  preachers  who,  without  shadow  of 
turning,  from  Christ's  time,  have  told  His 
story  for  men's  gain  and  good."  "Under  his 
preaching,"  said  McAllister,  one  of  his  Broth- 
erhood men,  "I  have  sat  with  hands  clenched, 
almost  ready  to  burst  as  the  life  stirred  in  me, 
in  response  to  his  call;  and  coming  out  froni 
the  service  I  would  be  as  a  drunken  man.  .  .  . 
He  rose  in  the  pulpit  one  morning  and  gave  as 
his  text,  'AH  is  vanity,  saith  the  preacher.' 
'Now,  I  suppose,'  he  proceeded,  'the  quickest 
way  to  answer  that  statement  is  to  say.  It's  a 
lie!' — and  he  proved  it." 

He  was  once  delivering  a  course  of  Sunday 
evening  sermons  on  Love.  He  had  been  ex- 
plaining how  the  force  at  the  heart  of  the  uni- 
verse was  wholly  beneficent,  quoting  Steven- 
son, "God  doeth  all  things  well,  though  by 
what  strange,  solemn  and  murderous  contriv- 
ances " ;  and  Browning's 

"God,  Thou  art  Love: 
I  build  my  faith  on  that." 


1 18         ED  WARD  LINCOLN  A  TKINSON 

On  the  last  night  he  was  reaching  his  climax, 
and  all  the  people  were  intent.  Suddenly  there 
entered  the  church  a  lunatic  whom  Atkinson 
had  helped.  He  perched  himself  on  the  back 
of  the  last  pew,  and  leered  at  the  preacher 
over  the  heads  of  the  congregation.  The  poor, 
maimed  life  was  a  vigorous  argument  against 
all  the  preacher  had  said.  For  a  moment  At- 
kinson wavered ;  he  began  to  feel  the  blackness 
of  despair  in  the  fallen  member  of  the  race 
whose  very  vacancy  challenged  him.  But  he 
was  sure  of  his  ground,  the  vision  of  God's  love 
absorbed  the  hideous  picture  before  him,  and 
he  finished  with  a  burst  of  triumph.  He  felt 
that  he  had  seen  the  worst  and  yet  believed : 
and  many  others,  ignorant  of  the  sad  spectacle, 
heard  his  words  and  saw  his  face  and  believed 
with  him. 

It  would  be  hard  to  describe  the  face  of  the 
preacher.  His  was  a  face  which  no  photograph 
could  reproduce,  just  because  it  was  so  per- 
fectly the  medium  of  his  eager  spirit — always 
living,  always  translating  by  infinite  expres- 
sions his  ideals  and  his  love.  He  came  into 
the  pulpit — as  he  marched  through  the  church 
behind  his  choir — serene,  simple,  unconscious 


EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON  AT  THE 
AGE  OF  THIRTY-FOUR,  FROM  A 
SILHOUETTE  CUT  IN  BOSTON,  DE- 
CEMBER   14,    1897 


THE  FOURTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON       II9 

of  self,  fresh,  vigorous,  radiantly  happy.  Peo- 
ple knew  at  once  that  he  was  there  for  a  pur- 
pose and  were  consequently  on  the  alert.  He 
placed  his  watch  on  the  unguarded  rail  of  the 
pulpit,  and  he  was  so  quiet  that  it  was  in  no 
peril.  His  fine  hands  seldom  moved  in  ges- 
ture :  it  was  as  if  he  scorned  to  use  them.  Some 
people  thought  that  he  looked  like  Savonarola; 
more  likened  him  to  Emerson.  They  tried  to 
describe  the  sweetness  and  homely  strength  of 
his  plain  features,  and  then  would  say  that,  in 
his  most  earnest  moments,  the  physical  face 
seemed  to  melt  into  the  mists,  and  they  be- 
lieved they  saw  the  face  that  would  survive — 
the  spiritual  face — so  changed,  so  transfigured, 
so  glorified — yet  the  face  of  the  man  they  loved. 
His  relations  to  the  St.  Andrew's  Brother- 
hood were  always  intimate.  He  was  one  of  the 
recognized  leaders  in  New  England,  and  stood 
with  Mr.  Robert  H.  Gardiner  and  Mr.  Edmund 
Billings  in  the  forefront  of  the  work.  His  own 
chapter  was  one  of  the  strongest,  giving  at  last 
McAllister  to  the  general  organization.  "We 
were  in  his  study  that  night,"  writes  Mr.  Mc- 
Allister. "Always  a  cantankerous  lot,  we  were 
on  edge  with  the  help  of  a  vehement  young 


120  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

Englishman  whose  specialty  was  prohibition, 
and  whose  flow  of  denunciation  swept  away 
order,  business  and  all  hope  of  anything  but 
a  scrap.  As  he  paused  for  breath,  Atkinson 
leaned  over  confidentially  and  put  one  hand 
on  the  orator's  arm,  saying,  'There,  there: 
"where's  my  wandering  boy  to-night?"  '  The 
tone,  though  of  course  humorous,  was  of  gen- 
tle inquiry  far  removed  from  sarcasm,  and 
brought  us  all  to  our  senses." 

The  annual  parish  fair  held  each  December 
interested  Atkinson,  and  he  always  saved  ten 
dollars  to  spend  at  it.  Besieged  at  the  door  by 
the  young  people  to  pay  before  he  entered,  he 
would  solemnly  put  down  a  penny,  declaring 
that  a  cent  was  enough  for  so  cheap  a  show. 
Now  that  he  was  housekeeping,  he  ordered 
here  the  linen  for  his  table,  and  good  friends 
sewed  and  embroidered.  He  felt  some  com- 
punctions about  getting  what  he  really  wished: 
it  didn't  seem  to  be  the  ethics  of  parish  fairs. 

His  home  life  was  now  more  regular.  He 
had  breakfast  at  half  after  eight.  Then  he 
would  read  his  paper,  read  and  answer  letters, 
and  plan  for  his  day.  If  he  was  not  beset  with 
visitors  at  once,  he  then  went  out  to  make  sick 


THE  FOURTH    YEAR  IN  BOSTON       121 

calls  and  to  look  in  upon  Emmanuel  House. 
His  office  hours  were  from  twelve  to  one,  but 
people  came  all  day.  Miss  Roe  always  kept  a 
record,  and  discovered  that  the  average  was 
sixty-seven  a  day.  One  Monday  the  bell  rang 
one  hundred  and  twelve  times,  breaking  all 
records;  she  often  had  the  hall,  dining-room 
and  kitchen  full  of  people  awaiting  their  turn. 
These  people  were  rarely  absolute  strangers; 
those  he  did  not  know  personally  were  gener- 
ally sent  by  his  parishioners.  They  came  from 
as  great  a  distance  as  Cambridge  or  Dorchester. 
There  were  wives  who  told  that  their  husbands 
had  run  away;  and  husbands  to  explain  that 
their  wives  were  not  doing  right.  A  certain 
number  of  pensioners  were  weekly  visitors. 
He  rarely  gave  any  money;  never  for  house- 
rent.  He  would  help  to  get  groceries,  but 
where  needs  were  so  great,  he  felt  that  the 
landlords  could  better  afford  the  loss  than  he. 
The  rent  was  regularly  paid,  however,  for  some 
aged  parishioners.  When  the  case  was  pro- 
founder  than  mere  physical  need,  when  it  was 
sorrow,  temptation  or  sin,  he  was  always  ten- 
derness and  hope.  Like  a  real  physician,  he 
was  eager  to  know  the  whole  case,  yet  he  never 


122  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

pried,  and  he  was  never  horrified.  At  some 
frightful  manifestation,  he  would  say,  "That's 
pretty  bad;  now  let's  see  what  we  can  do!" 
He  was  like  the  good  surgeon  who  is  so  intent 
on  healing  that  he  does  not  tremble  before  the 
awfulness  of  the  disease. 

At  a  quarter  after  one  Miss  Roe  insisted  on 
his  dropping  everything  and  sitting  down  to 
his  solitary  luncheon.  Then  he  would  take  a 
nap,  sitting  in  his  chair.  "Excuse  me,"  he 
would  say,  "just  make  yourself  at  home  for 
fifteen  minutes,  and  I'll  take  a  nap."  So  in  a 
twinkling  he  was  asleep.  He  had  cultivated 
the  valuable  habit,  and  it  refreshed  him  beyond 
measure ;  he  could  hardly  have  done  his  work 
without  it.  His  visitors  were  apt  to  continue 
all  afternoon,  but  if  he  could  he  went  out  be- 
tween three  and  four  to  make  calls  himself.  He 
tried  to  call  on  every  parishioner  once  a  year. 
One  afternoon  each  week  in  seasonable  weather 
he  tried  to  be  in  his  canoe  on  the  river.  Besides 
walking  from  house  to  house,  it  was  practically 
his  only  exercise.  He  was  at  home  for  dinner 
at  a  quarter  after  six,  when  he  ordinarily  had 
from  one  to  three  guests.  If  he  went  out  for 
dinner,  he  was  apt  to  be  at  home  by  nine  to 


THE  FOURTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON       I23 

meet  some  parishioner  who  could  not  see  him 
in  the  day-time.  Saturday  night  alone  was 
kept  for  his  sermon.  It  was  astonishing  how 
well  he  preached,  with  such  constant  activity 
and  so  little  solid  reading.  He  was  generally 
so  tired  when  he  was  alone  that  he  beguiled 
himself  with  his  scrap-books,  where  he  had 
pasted  odds  and  ends  that  had  interested 
him:  here  were  Stevenson's  Prayer,  Kingsley's 
verses,  Kipling's  new  verses  as  they  had  ap- 
peared, besides  an  almost  interminable  assort- 
ment of  jokes. 

His  brother  Fred  and  his  Bishop  worried 
about  his  not  reading  more.  He  admitted  that 
he  ought;  but  when  could  he  do  it?  Fortu- 
nately he  was  a  student  by  nature ;  he  was  thor- 
oughly equipped  at  the  start;  he  lived  among 
both  cultivated  and  uncultivated ;  he  read  life, 
therefore,  with  wide  and  accurate  intelligence. 
After  all,  he  read  more  than  most  of  us. 

He  had  interesting  kinks  in  his  personal  ways. 
There  was  one  special  kind  of  razor  with  which 
alone  he  was  able  to  shave.  When  he  wished 
to  buy  a  tie,  he  always  bought  a  dozen,  none 
of  which  would  be  worn  out.  If  a  friend  sug- 
gested malted  milk  on  going  to  bed,  he  bought 


124  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

not  a  sample,  but  a  five  pound  jar  for  his  ex- 
periment. He  never  bought  one  sponge,  al- 
ways two  or  three.  He  disliked,  one  suspects, 
to  trouble  a  clerk  for  a  trifling  purchase:  he 
liked  to  make  it  worth  his  while.  At  times  his 
clothes,  though  always  scrupulously  clean  and 
well  pressed,  would  look  worn :  it  was  an  indi- 
cation that  he  had  given  his  best  clothes  away, 
and  the  "  personal  f und  "  was  very  low.  Through 
most  of  the  Boston  days  he  was  constrained  to 
buy  ready-made  clothing;  but  once  in  a  while 
he  would  think  it  over  and  go  to  the  best  tailor 
in  town  and  get  everything.  He  kept  lists  of 
the  people  to  whom  he  felt  he  ought  to  make 
gifts  at  Christmas,  and  gave  usually  good 
books,  often  expensive  ones.  But  for  him- 
self, all  these  years,  he  bought  scarcely  a  book; 
yet  no  one  loved  a  new  book  more  than  he. 

If  possible,  Atkinson  felt  a  greater  interest 
in  Harvard  than  ever,  now  that  "his  boys" 
were  finishing  their  freshman  year.  July  2, 
1899,  he  wrote  to  Allen  Rice: 

"  •  Glory,  glory  for  the  Crimson, 
«f         «<       II     II         II 

«         II       II     II         II 
For  this  is  Harvard's  year  I ' 


THE  FOURTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON       12$ 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  week  in  Boston.  Every 
one  is  crazy  with  joy.  I  went  to  two  Pops.  I 
couldn't  go  last  night,  but  they  say  it  smashed 
the  record.  .  .  .  My,  I  am  glad  you  have 
had  such  a  freshman  year.  No  class  anywhere 
ever  did  chess,  whist,  debate,  shooting,  tennis, 
go\i,  football,  dual  games,  rowing  and  baseball! 
You  should  have  heard  the  yelling  the  night 
the  crew  won.  Poor  Strube  will  never  forget 
it.  How  they  roasted  Yale!  'Here's  to  poor 
old  Yale,  throw  her  down!'  etc.,  etc.  Once 
they  cheered  for  Yale,  and  it  made  the  hit  of 
the  evening. 

"I  went  to  my  Class  Dinner,  Graduates' 
Night  and  Commencement.  Of  course  Samp- 
son and  Wood  and  the  French  Ambassador 
got  great  send-offs.  Prexy,  too,  who  showed 
that  Harvard  beat  the  record  and  got  one  and 
a  quarter  millions  last  year.  So,  all  in  all,  it 
has  been  a  great  week  here.  I  think  outsiders 
have  been  glad  too.  Harvard !  How  can  any 
one  go  anywhere  else?" 

August  3,  1899,  evidently  after  taking  five 
or  six  steps  from  one  end  of  his  house  to 
the  other,  he  smiled  and  wrote  again  to  Rice  : 
"Miss  Roe  is  gone.     I  am  all  alone  in  this  big, 


126  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

BIG  house.  I  get  my  meals  at  Lunches-taken- 
out-to-put-up  places. 

"I  still  have  several  sick  calls  to  make  and 
57  (by  actual  count)  letters  to  write.  Then  I 
am  going  to  Reading  for  a  few  days  and  down 
to  the  beach  for  a  few  days ;  then  I  start  on  a 
trip  up  the  Hudson,  then  Adirondacks,  up  the 
St.  Lawrence,  etc.,  etc.     .     .     . 

"Tell  Charlie  I  enjoyed  every  minute  of  his 
visit  and  was  sorry  I  had  to  run  off  to  Camp. 
As  for  you,  you  little  imp,  I  love  you." 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE  FIFTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON 

AFTER  a  pleasant  journey  through  Canada 
with  a  friend,  Atkinson  settled  down  in 
September,  1899,  to  another  year  of  hard  work. 
"Milady  of  my  dreams,"  he  wrote  on  Septem- 
ber 3,  "has  not  come  yet,  but  I  am  waiting. 
Alas,  waiting!  I  do  not  refer  to  Miss  Roe, 
who,  however,  arrives  Tuesday,  and  I  shall 
forsake  the  restaurants  for  another  year." 

To  a  friend  to  whom  he  had  not  recently 
written  he  began:  "Dearest  Patience:  'I  know 
thy  patience.'  Like  virtue,  it  is  its  own  re- 
ward.  I'll  throw  in  a  letter  as  a  sort  of  chromo. 

"First  news  (no  gossip) :  Hoopes  has  another 
baby,  a  girl ;  Edwards  has  enlarged  his  church 
again;  Torbert  and  Rousmaniere  are  used  up; 
Ayer,  Holyoke  and  Southborough  are  on  the 
market;  Dewart  is  married;  Bumpus  is  a  * 
and  E.  L.  A.  is  happy  and  well. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  a  fellow  you  were  com- 


128  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

ing?    Why  didn't  Harvard  beat  Yale?  Who's 

the  new  Bishop  of ?    Why  shouldn't 

go?     Suppose  goes!     Dr.    Abbott   asks 

me  to  preach  for  him,  so  does  Rousmaniere, 
so  does  Billy  Thayer,  so  does  R.  Parker,  so 
does  Mattapan  and  Mudville.  Bumpus  is  a  *, 
just  the  man  for  the  place — and  the  work  is 
booming. 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  know?  I  do,  did, 
so  want  to  see  you.  I  like  Smith  very  much. 
He  is  of  the  right  stuff.  I  often  think  of  your 
basking  by  the  fireside  of  your  fine  house.  I 
toast  my  toes  there  too  and  rejoice. 

"The  Twenty  Club  smiles  to  me.     is 

less  mighty  and  his  proud  stomach  delighteth 

less   to   annoy   me;  speaketh  and  

speaketh  and is  no  longer  silent. 

"Dear  old  fellow,  I  love  thee.  Believe  in  all 
these  sweet  telepathic  messages  you  get  from 
me.  They  are  mine  and  genuine  and  I  am 
thine." 

As  early  as  1897  Atkinson  had  spoken  to 
Dr.  Parks  of  the  need  of  an  enlarged  church, 
but  the  Emmanuel  people  were  already  mak- 
ing plans  for  the  enlargement  of  the  parish 
church,  and  of  course  the  plan  for  the  chapel 


THE  FIFTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON  1 29 

was  postponed.  When  Emmanuel  was  fin- 
ished and  paid  for,  Atkinson  reminded  Dr. 
Parks  of  his  promise,  and  began  the  work  with 
appeals  to  the  people  of  the  Ascension.  By 
the  middle  of  November  $470.cx)  had  been 
raised  in  small  gifts;  and  the  next  year  the 
people  of  Emmanuel  came  to  their  aid.  At- 
kinson was  cheered  day  by  day  with  the  sacri- 
fice of  his  own  people  to  make  the  church  more 
adequate  to  its  work.  One  little  girl,  for  ex- 
ample, was  going  a  very  long  distance  for  milk 
that  she  might  get  it  a  cent  cheaper.  This 
penny  a  day  went  for  the  new  church.  It  was 
such  stories  as  this,  of  course  using  no  names, 
that  Atkinson  recounted  on  All  Saints'  Day, 
when  he  read  a  list  of  what  he  called  "the 
saintly  acts"  for  the  year — heroic  acts  within 
the  parish  which  had  come  to  his  knowledge. 
Christmas  passed  with  its  gifts,  its  beautiful 
church  and  fine  music;  and  on  the  27th  he 
married  his  friend  Edward  James  to  Miss  Gush- 
ing. "My  little  church  will  become  a  cathedral 
for  that  day,"  he  had  written.  A  few  days 
later  he  wrote  to  Allen  Rice:  "If  I  live  through 
next  week,  I  am  going  to  swear  off  preaching 
like  a  lyceum  lecturer  up  and  down  the  land. 
9 


I30         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

I'll  tell  you  my  engagements  when  I  see 
you:  one  is  as  '  University  Preacher'  at  the 
Conservatory.  I  have  had  four  weddings  this 
week.  Alas!  to  see  so  much  fun  and  not  to 
be  in  it !  I  am  going  to  do  better  in  the  next 
century." 

To  another  friend  he  wrote  in  the  middle  of 
January:  "Your  letter  did  me  heaps  of  good. 
It  is  the  best  one  I  have  had  in  years.  I  liked 
it  above  all  because  it  was  just  like  you.  Ex- 
cuse me  while  I  read  it  again. 

"Dear  fellow,  you  make  me  bawl!  How  I 
long  to  see  you !  It  gets  ter'ble  lonesome  some- 
times. I  am  thinking  of  the  unlonesome  times 
we  used  to  have ;  once  when  you  were  the  fairy 
queen,  and  other  times  when  you  were  other 
things — but  these  are  other  stories. 

"Plague  take  it,  I  can't  come  now — not  be- 
fore Lent  anyway.  I  have  just  returned  from 
a  week's  vacation  and  a  proper  time  must 
elapse  before  I  take  another  one.  I  am  deep 
in  work;  stuck,  I  suppose,  for  two  months  at 
least.  Confirmations,  Bishops,  Lents,  Courses 
by  Theological  Professors,  barn-stormings  in 
country  parishes,  etc.,  etc.,  block  the  way. 

"So  you  see  I  want  to  come.     It's  lucky  I 


THE  FIFTH  YEAR  IN  BOSTON  I3I 

cannot ;  for  I  would  talk  you  blind  and  lame 
and  halt  and  love  you  to  pieces." 

To  a  very  dear  friend,  near  by,  he  wrote  the 
next  week:  "Here's  a  'good-night'  for  you. 
To  be  sure,  you  will  read  it  in  the  morning. 
Well,  it  will  tell  you  that  last  night  the  *dom- 
inee'  went  to  bed  thinking  of  you  and  praying 
for  you  and  thanking  God  for  you.  Many's 
the  night  it  has  helped  me  to  a  happy  rest  to 
think  of  the  rich  prize  in  my  life  your  name 
stands  for.  No  wonder  I  wish  for  nothing  but 
your  happiness  and  pray  for  nothing  but  your 

welfare,  and,  ,  if  ever  your  life  (or  your 

joy)  is  in  the  balance,  hangs  by  a  thread,  I 
pray  mine  may  be  taken  in  its  stead." 

Atkinson's  ability  to  lose  himself  in  his  in- 
terest for  another  came  out  often  in  his  letters 
to  his  best  friends:  it  was  a  real  love.  But  occa- 
sionally men  saw  it  face  to  face.  One  of  his 
friends  writes:  "I  was  shaken  physically  when 
I  went  to  his  parish,  and  during  a  long  up-hill 
fight  I  found  him  always  ready,  sympathetic, 
brave,  inspiring.  One  night,  greatly  agitated, 
I  burst  into  his  presence  and  found  him  poring 
over  his  work;  and  as  he  looked  up  with  the 
old  smile,  it  dawned  on  me  that  I  was  in  the 


132  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

presence  of  Love.  Overwhelmed,  I  fled  from 
the  house,  and  it  was  a  week  or  more  before  I 
could  speak  to  him.  After  that  he  was  a  being 
whose  existence  was  apart  from  mine.  I  could 
love  him  and  try  to  serve  him,  but  the  real 
comradeship  was  denied  by  my  own  distorted 
self." 

Lent  came  with  its  bad  weather  and  many 
services.  March  22,  he  wrote:  "Drown  can- 
not come  Sunday  night.  Bumpus  is  also  sick, 
thinks  it  is  the  grippe.  So  I  am  the  only  well 
man  on  the  beach.  I  am  going  to  preach  three 
times  Sunday.  160,000  cases  of  grippe  in  Bos- 
ton— never  touched  me." 

After  Easter  he  was  off  for  a  few  days'  holi- 
day, staying  with  some  relatives  who  were  es- 
pecially dear  to  him.  "It  is  needless  to  say," 
he  wrote  to  a  friend,  "that  I  am  here  and 

how  much  I  am  enjoying  being  with and 

his  wife.  I  tell  you,  they  love  each  other  and 
are  perfect  companions  and  chums.  They  are 
happy,  too.  With  all  their  outside  interests 
and  ambitions,  they  are  self-contained,  and  for 
each  the  sun  rises  and  sets  in  the  other.  They 
love  each  other,  and  besides,  they  like  and  love 
the  same  things.     You  cannot  really  have  love, 


THE  FIFTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON         133 

perfect,  blissful  love,  between  two  souls  unless 
these  two  souls  have  nearly  similar  ideals  and 
aims.  The  love  of  a  man  for  a  woman  (if  that 
love  is  to  be  a  thing  of  beauty  and  joy  everlast- 
ingly) and  of  a  woman  for  a  man  must  be  mixed 
up  with  a  third  set  of  things — and  lots  depend 
on  the  nature  of  that  third  set  of  things.  The 
girl  I  love  must  love  not  only  me,  but  the  same 
things  I  love.  If  she  does  not,  then  I  am  going 
to  learn  to  love  the  things  she  loves — or  else  no 
love  story  and  'living  happy  ever  after.'  But 
what  a  tragedy  it  must  be  when  either  side  has 
to  come  down  to  the  other's  third  set !  Whew ! 
what  a  discourse! 

"But,  old  fellow,  it  would  make  you  think 
to  live  under  this  roof  and  at  close  view  to  a 
companionship  so  trustful  and  beautiful  as 
this  one.  Don't  you  suppose  they  understand 
each  other  perfectly?  Have  they  not  told 
each  other  all?  Have  they  not  been  glad  that 
the  story  at  times  was  almost  bad  because  that 
made  it  human,  and  at  other  times  that  it  was 
no  worse  because  it  helped  them  to  cling  to 
the  divine?  There  is  left  somewhere  for  us  all 
a  heap  of  trust  and  forbearance  and  sympathy. 
No  one  of  us  needs  ever  to  be  quite  bankrupt. 


134         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

Perhaps  some  of  us  would  never  know  what 
the  best  things  in  life  were  did  we  not  wander 
astray  and  overdraw  our  accounts.  Believe 
me,  I  did  not  intend  to  preach. 

"At  least,  I  was  not  preaching  to  you  or  to 
Johnnie  (whom  I  love  and  preach  to,  too)  more 
than  to  myself.  After  all,  it  is  not  so  much 
the  doing  of  bad  things  that  unmakes  us  as  not 
doing  more  good  things.  ...  I  say  to 
myself  when  mean  wishes  and  low  thoughts 
and  selfish  aims  and  ill-tempered  acts  get  the 
better  of  me — Well,  that  lays  up  a  big  pile  of 
wood  for  me  to  saw.  I  know  I  can  clean  it 
out  only  by  hard  work  in  love  and  sacrifice 
for  others.  .  .  .  There  you  have  it — my 
reasons  for  working  hard  day  in  and  day  out 
in  Boston — trying  to  clear  up  that  wood 
pile." 

In  the  spring  of  1900  Dr.  Fred  Atkinson, 
Edward's  brother,  was  appointed  Superintend- 
ent of  Public  Instruction  in  the  Philippines. 
"In  some  ways,"  Edward  wrote,  "I  am  glad; 
for  it  gives  my  brother  a  fine  chance  to  do  a 
good  work.  It  would  be  shabby  of  me  to  show 
any  unhappiness  in  the  matter,  so  I  am  saying 
nothing.     It  is  the  great  task  Macaulay  con- 


THE  FIFTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON  135 

sidered  his  chief  one  in  India."  He  confessed 
afterward,  "It  is  just  another  'giving  up'  on 
my  part."  In  June,  after  his  brother  and  sis- 
ter had  started,  he  told  of  their  fine  letters 
from  different  places:  "I  am  growing  more 
brave  as  the  distance  is  making  it  seem  all  so 
got-to-be.  I  am  so  happy  in  my  work  and  sta- 
tion that  it  helps  me  to  stand  this  which  makes 
his  work  and  station.  You  are  good  in  your 
sympathy,  which  I  do  need."  The  barber  who 
was  cutting  Edward's  hair  one  day  had  read 
the  news.  "Well,"  said  the  barber,  holding 
the  shears  aloft,  "I  suppose  your  brother  can 
get  you  a  good  job  out  there  now!  "  "Well," 
answered  Atkinson,  smiling,  "I  am  pretty  well 
satisfied  with  the  'job'  I  have  here!" 

On  his  thirty-fifth  birthday  his  college  friends 
united  to  give  him  some  exquisite  glasses  for 
his  table.  He  was  always  receiving  gifts,  but 
it  always  seemed  wonderful  to  him  that  any  one 
should  think  enough  of  him  to  give  him  any- 
thing. "The  year,"  he  wrote  the  next  day, 
"has  given  me  so  many  new  friends  and  deep- 
ened so  many  old  friendships.  In  middle  life 
I  am  more  successful  than  I  ever  dared  to  hope 
in  the  profession  I  call  the  greatest,  etc.,  etc. 


136  EDIVARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

And  I  have  a  real  brother  in  you — one  who 
never  belittles  my  work,  who  never  lacks  sym- 
pathy, who  overlooks  easily,  who  is  always 
human,  who  never  ties  himself  up  in  morbid, 
introspective  bow-knots,  but  takes  life  as  a 
healthy,  manly  fight.     .     .     . 

"You  are  a  true  friend,  too,  for  I  know  what 
you  have  to  put  up  with.  I  know  that  my 
personality,  at  its  best,  makes  people  for  the 
time  forget  (I  try  to  think  so)  my  leading 
faults,  my  lack  of  grace,  my  pure,  unadulter- 
ated homeliness.  But  you  have  seen  me 
chiefly  at  the  other  times,  yet  your  love 
wavers  not. 

"I  think  thinks  often  that  the  Vicar 

simply  loves  the  fellows  in  place  of  not  getting 
round  to  the  wife  that  is  to  be.  We  have  never 
discussed  it,  but  I  am  sure  he  is  wrong  if  he 
thinks  so  really,  for  I  shall  always  love  you 
just  as  much — and  I  shall  be  proud  to  have  her 
know  the  good  friends  I  have — especially  you 
— the  first  of  them  all.  May  you  see  her  over 
the  same  glasses  some  day — and  that  soon. 
But  don't  you  ever  think  I  shall  love  you  less 
or  need  and  want  you  less." 

Atkinson  always  poked  fun  at  himself  for 


THE  FIFTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON         137 

what  he  deemed  his  plain  face:  he  was  perhaps 
a  little  sensitive  about  it.  And  there  is  no 
doubt  he  was  awkward,  but  it  was  the  sort 
of  awkwardness  that  makes  you  love  a  man: 
tumbling  over  himself  in  his  haste  to  be  kind. 
One  night,  over  his  coffee  after  dinner,  as  he 
sat  on  a  friend's  porch,  he  was  speaking  of  his 
brother,  who  had  just  sent  him  a  letter  from 
Honolulu.  "Oh,"  he  said,  "he's  such  a  great 
big,  splendid-looking  fellow!"  Then  he  added 
quickly,  in  a  solemn  whisper,  "You  know  I 
always  said  the  Lord  put  all  his  time  on  my 
twin  brother." 

In  a  letter  to  Allen  Rice  he  gave  a  list  of  the 
events  from  the  15th  to  the  28th  of  June.  A 
few  of  the  items  will  show  how  he  kept  up  his 
Harvard  interests. 

"22d.  Class  Day.  Didn't  go.  Rained  like 
Yale. 

"25th.  '90  at  the  Pops.  I  haven't  suffi- 
cient rhetoric  to  tell  you  what  a  gay  time  it 
was.     See  clipping. 

"26th.  Class  dinner  at  Bellevue.  Free  fiz 
and  other  fizzy  things.  Best  time  I  ever  had 
of  its  kind.  Over  one  hundred  fellows  and  all 
happy.     Had  to  wear  dress  suits,  but  five  min- 


138         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

utes  after  dinner  began,  all  took  off  coats  per 
order.  Several  were  killed  who  hesitated.  I 
left  at  half.past  one,  others  later.  You  must 
see  our  witty  menu. 

"It  boomed  things  some  to  know  Harvard 
had  won  3-0. 

"27th.  Went  to  Commencement  and  din- 
ner. Briggs  was  cheered  to  the  echo  over  and 
over  again,  and  he  made  a  great  speech. 

"I  had  3  Weddings  3  in  the  evening. 

"28th.  The  races  were  all  right.  We  got 
the  two  we  ought  to  get  and  missed  the  other 
just  by  Higginson's  ill  luck.  No  one  is  dis- 
couraged here." 

The  middle  of  July  he  wrote  to  a  distant 
friend:  "The  first  and  middle  and  last  of  my 
message  to  you,  so  suggestive  of  a  thunder- 
bolt out  of  a  clear  sky,  is  that  the  old  heart  in 
me  still  wells  up  with  joy  and  affection  when 
your  name  and  faithful  friendship  come  to 
mind. 

' '  How  are  you  ?  What  is  the  best  thing  that 
is  happening  to  you?  Wasn't  it  fine  that  dear 
good  Briggs  got  his  LL.D.  ?  I  got  a  character- 
istic modest  note  from  him  on  congratulating 
him.     It  would  have  done   your  loyal  heart 


THE  FIFTH   YEAR  IN  BOSTON  1 39 

good  to  hear  the  cheers  he  got  at  Commence- 
ment. 

"You  were  like  your  thoughtful  self  when 

you  named  me  for .     I  get  calls  now  and 

then,  as  I  know  you  do.     Mine  are  not  so  very 

flattering,  although would  have  been  had 

I  stood  for  it,  and  it  would  have  been  to  my 
liking  had  I  felt  free  at  the  time  to  consider  it. 
Mr.  Parks  has  at  last  burst  into  flame  with  his 
crimson  D.D.  I  know  he  is  very  happy  over 
it,  and  I  am  glad  he  got  it.  He  deserves  it  and 
what  Prexy  said. 

"They  called  me  to  Waltham,  and  the  Bishop 
outdid  himself  by  an  affectionate  and  far-see- 
ing letter  of  five  pages.  He  said  not  to  go,  but 
at  the  same  time  characterized  me,  my  work, 
and  my  future  most  encouragingly.     .     .     . 

"Bumpus  is  playing  gawf  at  North  Conway. 

is  below   the   horizon.      and   

and are  now  two  each.    at would 

that  he  had  wings  like  a  dove.  Edwards  is 
still  succeeding — builds  an  addition  once  a 
month.  .  .  .  E.  L.  A.  is  happy.  He  has 
broadened  his  work  in  many  ways  in  the  year 
past,  goes  on  the  outside  more.  Bumpus  is  a 
trump:  60  confirmed,  72  baptized  in  last  six 


I40         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

months;    a   rousing   Sunday-school;    8oo  at- 
tended to  at  Emmanuel  House. 

"Dr.  Allen  is  through  with  the  Life  at  last 
and  we  are  to  have  it  with  the  fall  books.  I 
read  something  now  every  day — usually  my 
letters." 


CHAPTER    X 

THICK  DARKNESS 

THE  first  of  August,  1900,  found  Atkinson 
started  on  his  annual  holiday.  He  was 
spending  a  few  days  with  his  friend  Herman 
Page  just  outside  of  Newport,  but  a  slight 
trouble  with  his  eyes  suddenly  became  so  pain- 
ful that  he  drove  to  Newport  to  consult  a  phy- 
sician. This  was  the  first  Friday  in  August. 
Mr.  Page  had  a  few  errands  to  do  on  the  way 
to  the  doctor's,  and  the  pain  was  growing  each 
moment  more  intense,  but  Atkinson  sat  in  the 
carriage  and  said  nothing.  At  last  when  they 
reached  the  doctor,  he  pronounced  the  case  so 
serious  that  Atkinson  must  go  at  once  to  the 
best  specialist  in  Boston,  and  he  gave  him  a 
name  and  address.  There  was  now  nothing 
to  do  but  to  endure  and  to  wait.  He  took  the 
first  Boston  train,  and  made  the  journey  alone. 
Not  only  was  the  pain  the  most  intense  tor- 
ture, but  he  was  blind;  so,  as  the  train  drew 


142  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

into  the  South  Station,  he  employed  a  porter 
to  lead  him  to  a  cab.  In  the  cabman  he  found 
an  intelligent  helper,  who  drove  him  at  once 
to  the  great  oculist  whom  the  Newport  doctor 
had  suggested;  but,  alas!  he  was  of!  on  his 
summer  holiday.  Some  one  then  told  him 
of  an  oculist  in  the  Warren  Chambers,  so  they 
drove  off  with  all  speed  to  find  him — but  he 
too  was  gone.  Atkinson  was  almost  frantic. 
A  passer-by  suggested  Dr.  Hunt.  The  sym- 
pathetic cabman  led  Atkinson  to  his  carriage, 
and  off  they  went  again.  Faint  with  all  this 
agonizing  delay,  Atkinson  heard  the  cabman's 
exulting  cry:  "He's  in!" 

It  was  now  seven  o'clock  of  this  Friday  even- 
ing. It  was  nine  when  Dr.  Hunt  had  finished 
with  his  patient;  and  the  treatment  seemed 
to  increase  the  pain,  if  possible,  rather  than  to 
alleviate  it.  He  could  not  tell  what  it  was;  but 
by  questioning  Atkinson's  experience  of  the 
few  days  before,  he  decided  that  he  had  taken 
a  diphtheria  germ  into  his  eye  while  visiting 
a  malignant  case.  His  eyes  had  for  some 
time  been  inflamed;  his  finger  had  certainly 
touched  the  patient  ;  and,  afterwards,  care- 
lessly brushing  away  a  slight  irritation  in  his 


THICK  DARKNESS  1 43 

eye,  he  had  thus,  doubtless,  conveyed  to  it 
the  germ. 

The  waiting  cabman  now  drove  Atkinson  to 
Clifton  Place,  but  everything  was  torn  up  to 
make  ready  for  the  painters;  so  he  could  not 
stay  in  his  own  house.  He  went  then  to  Em- 
manuel House  to  find  Bumpus,  but  Bumpus 
was  out,  and  the  house  desolate.  Hundreds 
of  hands  would  have  helped  him,  if  they  had 
only  known,  but  it  was  a  midsummer  night 
and  no  one  suspected  a  cause  for  staying  at 
home.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done,  then, 
but  to  go  to  The  Langham.  So,  led  by  the 
hand  like  a  child,  he  walked  down  to  the  hotel 
which  had  been  his  first  home  in  Boston. 

The  doctor  had  told  him  to  keep  ice  on  his 
eyes,  as  the  only  possible  relief.  Once  in  his 
room,  therefore,  he  paid  the  bell-boy  gener- 
ously and  asked  him  to  bring  him  more  ice  at 
midnight.  The  boy  said  that  he  would  be  up 
all  night,  and  the  ice  should  be  brought  regu- 
larly. So  Atkinson  lay  down — but  not  to 
sleep.  Before  midnight  the  ice  had  all  melted ; 
and  he  waited  patiently  for  the  boy.  At  twelve 
the  boy  would  come;  in  any  case  Atkinson 
must  wait,  for  he  did  not  know  where  the  bell 


144         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

was.  Twelve  o'clock  came,  but  no  boy — not 
even  a  step  in  the  hall.  Pain  and  weakness 
made  him  almost  desperate;  but  still  he 
waited.  He  became  at  last  convinced  that  the 
boy  had  quite  forgotten  him ;  so  he  began  his 
journey  around  the  room,  on  his  hands  and 
knees,  feeling  over  the  wall  for  the  bell.  It 
seemed  to  be  diabolically  concealed ;  in  his 
pain  and  extreme  nervousness,  he  probably 
passed  it  several  times.  At  last  he  found  it. 
The  careless  boy  came  at  length  to  ask  what 
was  wanted:  he  had  altogether  forgotten. 

In  the  morning  Bumpus  came  to  take  him  to 
Emmanuel  House,  and  three  times  that  hot 
Saturday  he  drove  in  a  closed  carriage  to  Dr. 
Hunt's  office  for  treatment. 

Sunday  afternoon  he  sent  for  Miss  Roe,  who 
came  at  once.  And  Monday  he  went  to  his 
own  house.  He  was  still  making  his  three 
daily  visits  to  the  oculist,  but  the  pain  was  con- 
stant and  he  had  not  yet  slept.  His  brother 
Harry  came,  but  no  one  else  was  permitted  to 
see  him. 

Wednesday  night  he  was  worse:  the  pain 
seemed  to  consume  him.  Relief  came  Thurs- 
day; and  Friday  he  was  so  much  better  that 


THICK  DARKNESS  I45 

between  five  and  six  his  brother  took  him  out 
for  a  walk. 

Saturday  was  very  hot,  and  company  came, 
who,  with  all  their  kindness,  woke  him  from  a 
refreshing  sleep,  and  excited  him  in  his  ner- 
vous condition.  So  he  was  again  worse  for 
Saturday  and  Sunday.  In  spite  of  the  great 
heat,  he  could  not  be  fanned ;  for  the  slightest 
breeze  upon  his  eyes  increased  the  pain.  Miss 
Roe,  with  heroic  patience,  cracked  ice  day  and 
night,  and  wished  she  could  do  even  more. 

Sunday  night  he  went  to  bed  about  nine  and 
fell  asleep.  At  ten  he  awoke  with  dreadful 
pain,  and  was  forced  to  call  Miss  Roe.  From 
then  until  three  he  was  worse  and  worse.  Miss 
Roe,  finding  that  her  remedies  were  of  no 
avail,  went  for  Bumpus,  who  brought  Dr. 
Hunt.  Dr.  Hunt  came  and  changed  the  treat- 
ment, ordering  hot  applications — boiling  hot 
— instead  of  the  cold.  All  day  Monday  Miss 
Roe  boiled  the  water  and  kept  the  bandages  on 
his  eyes;  but  there  was  no  help  in  it.  Mon- 
day night,  therefore,  the  doctor  again  ordered 
the  ice.  There  was  now  no  doubt  that  it  was 
diphtheria:  the  air  of  the  room  quickly  told  that. 

Monday,  Tuesday  and  Wednesday,  this  sec- 
10 


146         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

ond  week  in  August,  Dr.  Hunt  came  three 
times  each  day.  The  treatment  was  Spartan 
to  the  last  degree;  and  once  Atkinson  fainted 
in  spite  of  himself.  Every  hour  Miss  Roe 
dropped  five  drops  of  acid  into  his  eye.  Once, 
in  his  deh'rium,  he  raised  his  hand  to  beat  her 
back  from  him.  Abscesses  formed — every- 
thing seemed  to  happen  that  could  happen  to 
the  human  eye.  Even  the  doctor  despaired  of 
his  ever  seeing  again. 

Every  afternoon  at  four  his  brother  Harry 
came  from  his  office  and  staid  with  him  till  six, 
reading  to  him  and  writing  his  letters.  "One 
afternoon,"  his  brother  writes,  "a  poor  woman 
came  to  the  door  and  said  her  brother  was  dy- 
ing, and  she  wanted  a  minister  at  once.  I 
could  not  find  Mr.  Bumpus,  and  Ned  said,  'I 
will  go.'  I  said, 'No;  of  course  not.'  He  in- 
sisted and  took  my  arm,  and  we  followed  the 
woman,  who  had  gone  ahead,  across  Washing- 
ton Street  and  beyond,  to  a  wooden  house,  up 
one  flight,  and  into  the  dying  man's  chamber. 
He  knelt  by  his  bed  and  said  prayers  and  com- 
forting words,  after  which  I  led  him  back  to 
Clifton  Place  again."  Miss  Roe,  in  addition 
to  all  her  other  ministrations,  read  to  him  the 


THICK  DARKNESS  I47 

Life  of  Bishop  Hannington ;  and  they  would 
talk  of  the  missionary  hero,  quite  unconscious 
that  they  were  heroes  themselves. 

His  friends  wrote  him  cheering  letters,  but 
most  of  those  who  could  have  read  to  him  were 
out  of  town.  Allen  Rice  was,  as  usual,  tak- 
ing care  of  the  Ascension  Boys*  Camp  at  Ply- 
mouth, where  he  had  under  him  twelve  boys 
for  ten  days,  then  another  twelve  were  sent 
him  for  another  ten  days,  and  so  on  till 
he  had  given  five  such  "squads"  a  fine  out- 
ing. To  Rice's  inquiries  Atkinson  replied 
through  his  amanuensis  on  the  first  of  Sep- 
tember: "Last  Saturday  a  relapse  began  and 
brought  with  it  more  pain  than  the  previous 
disease,  and  the  doctor  began  his  three  treat- 
ments a  day  again — there  is  the  morning  and 
evening  dressing  and  the  noon  cauterizing,  I 
have  been  cauterized  every  day  and  expect  to 
be  one  or  two  days  more.  The  gain  day  by 
day  has  been  very  trifling,  yet  the  doctor  says 
we  have  found  the  path  which  will  soon  bring 
us  out  of  the  woods.  On  account  of  the  re- 
lapse the  doctor  had  to  use  severer  re-agents, 
and  the  shock  to  my  system  has  been  so  great 
that  I  have  almost  no  strength  at  all.     Yet  I 


148  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

am  in  pretty  good  spirits,  and  I  am  looking 
forward  to  being  well  again  and  seeing  all  of 
you  who  have  been  so  kind  to  me. 

"Miss  Roe  still  sticks  to  the  helm.  I  really 
do  not  know  what  I  should  have  done  without 
her." 

Dr.  Parks  was  kindness  itself.  The  first  free 
moment  after  he  heard  of  the  illness  he  came 
from  Islesborough  to  urge  Atkinson  to  return 
with  him  to  his  country  home;  but  Atkinson, 
with  much  gratitude,  declined,  deeming  it 
wiser  to  remain  in  Boston.  Other  invitations 
kept  coming;  but  he  declined  them  all,  till  at 
last,  on  September  25,  led  by  his  brother  Harry, 
he  went  to  Springfield  to  stay  for  several  weeks 
with  some  old  friends  there,  who  read  to  himr 
talked  to  him  and  wrote  his  letters. 

On  the  fifth  day  of  October  Dr.  Parks  wrote 
to  him:  "I  remember  that  before  you  went 
away  you  were  foolish  enough  to  think  of  re- 
turning here  by  the  first  of  October.  I  am 
glad  to  find  that  you  have  not  carried  out  this 
threat,  but  I  have  so  little  confidence  in  you 
that  I  feel  impelled  to  write  to  you  in  regard 
to  your  conduct ! 

"Now,  my  dear  fellow,  it  is  of  the  greatest 


THICK  DARKNESS  1 49 

importance,  I  will  not  say  to  you,  because  I 
imagine  that  argument.would  have  little  weight 
with  you,  but  it  is  of  the  greatest  importance 
to  your  work  that  you  should  not  return  to  it 
until  you  are  in  thoroughly  good  condition  to 
do  it.  .  .  .  I  am  to  see  Bumpus  to-mor- 
row morning,  and  I  will  have  a  talk  with  him 
in  regard  to  the  best  interests  of  the  Ascension, 
and  if  he  is  willing,  I  hope  to  go  and  preach 
there  myself  on  Sunday  evening.  If  Bumpus 
prefers  to  do  the  work  alone  for  the  present, 
well  and  good ;  if  not,  I  shall  see  that  he  has 
some  one  to  assist  him ;  so  that  you  can  have 
a  perfectly  quiet  mind  in  regard  to  Bumpus. 
We  shall  not  overwork  him.  So,  my  dear  fel- 
low, be  very  sensible  about  this  thing.  Think 
how  great  an  escape  you  have  had  and  make 
up  your  mind  to  give  all  the  time  necessary  for 
a  complete  recovery.  Above  all,  do  not  re- 
turn to  the  Church  of  the  Ascension  until  you 
have  first  come  to  see  me.  Perhaps  I  don't 
want  you  to  work  there  any  more!  At  any 
rate,  you  must,  in  this  matter,  do  as  I  say.  I 
do  not  think  you  can  recall  any  other  instance 
where  I  have  said  this,  so  that  I  hope  you  will 
be  inclined  to  do  as  I  wish." 


ISO         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

Atkinson  fixed  another  date  for  returning. 
"I  do  not  think,"  wrote  Dr.  Parks,  "that  I 
shall  agree  to  your  returning  to  work  as  early 
as  that.  In  fact,  I  like  the  work  so  much 
myself  that  I  think  I  shall  keep  on  doing  it  my- 
self. I  went  up  there  Sunday  night.  Had  a 
beautiful  time.  Sent  Bumpus  away  and  had 
the  whole  thing  to  myself.  There  was  a  fine 
congregation,  the  floor  filled,  and  the  gallery 
more  than  half  filled.  The  singing  was  fine 
and  I  enjoyed  every  minute  of  it,  and  I  hope 
the  people  are  none  the  worse." 

October  5,  Atkinson  sent  a  message  from 
Springfield,  "I  am  singing  TV  Z?^«wj  because 
the  pain  is  gone,  and  the  doctor  promises  that 
my  vision  will  be  completely  restored."  But 
even  after  he  had  returned  to  Boston,  unfore- 
seen complications  continued  to  arise.  After 
more  pain  and  anxiety  he  wrote  to  Allen  Rice 
on  the  twenty-second:  "Hurrah!  I  am  getting 
over  my  third  disease  and  the  doctor  promises 
on  his  word  of  honor  that  I  shall  have  my  final 
examination  next  Friday  and  that  I  shall  go 
back  to  work  the  following  Monday.  I  have 
been  more  in  the  dumps  than  I  ever  was  since 
I  came  home,  because  Dr.  Hunt's  reports  have 


THICK  DARKNESS  151 

been  so  discouraging.  Until  this  morning  he 
thought  he  would  have  to  use  the  knife,  but 
he  feels  quite  sure  now  that  the  danger  is  past. ' ' 

October  26,  he  wrote  to  his  socialistic  friend: 
"You  will  be  glad  to  know  that  I  shall  vote  for 
Bryan.  My  brother's  being  at  Manila  rather 
impels  me  towards  Bryan  than  otherwise.  I 
know  my  brother  approves  of  the  present  ad- 
ministration in  every  way  and  is  a  staunch  Re- 
publican. If  Bryan's  election  will  send  my 
brother  home,  I  am  sure  I  would  not  only  vote 
for  him,  but  buy  a  few  votes. 

"I  am  still  helpless  as  regards  my  eyes,  yet 
greatly  on  the  mend.  I  have  just  come  from 
Dr.  Hunt's,  and  he  has  given  me  the  prescrip- 
tion for  my  distance  glasses ;  so  on  the  strength 
of  that,  I  am  going  back  to  my  work  next 
Thursday,  though  it  will  be  a  month  more  be- 
fore I  am  able  to  read  or  write.  I  no  longer 
suffer  any  pain  and  there  is  no  longer  any  doubt 
about  my  being  able  to  see  perfectly  when  the 
eyes  are  really  well  again.  The  corneal  ul- 
cers, which  have  been  the  recent  development, 
promise  to  go  away  under  the  present  treatment 
and  no  longer  threaten  the  use  of  the  knife. 
You  can  guess  that  I  am  very  grateful  to  come 


152  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

out  SO  well  from  such  a  serious  experience,  so 
I  hope  I  shall  fight  a  good  many  battles  yet." 

After  the  first  of  November  he  read  his 
letters.  The  first  Sunday  in  November  he 
preached.  He  did  considerable  parish  work 
from  this  time,  but  he  did  no  reading  (except 
letters)  till  January. 

The  whole  experience  was  tragic.  In  his 
intense  way  he  had  said  one  morning  in  his 
study,  a  year  or  so  before:  "If  I  were  told  that 
I  should  die  to-morrow,  I  should  be  willing  to 
go;  but  if  I  were  told  that  something  would 
happen  to  cripple  me  so  that  I  could  not  go  on 
with  my  work — that  I  should  be  blind,  for  in- 
stance— I  don't  see  how  I  could  stand  it !"  The 
test  which  he  deemed  hardest  of  all  came,  there- 
fore, this  summer  of  1900.  When  he  was  re- 
minded of  his  former  words,  he  replied : ' '  Well, 
if  I  am  blind,  I  will  go  on  with  my  work — I  will 
be  a  'blind  preacher' !  " 

In  December  he  wrote  to  Carroll:  "My  eyes 
are  doing  well.  The  right  one  is  still  partly 
closed,  scowley  and  rather  inclined  to  look 
as  if  the  Crimson  were  still  winning  football 
games.  I  did  half-work  in  November,  but  the 
saw  will  buzz  full  time  in  December." 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE  LAST  YEAR   IN  BOSTON 

THE  year  1901  started  with  a  grateful  return 
to  all  the  old  tasks.  Atkinson  was  look- 
ing forward  to  the  enlargement  of  the  Church 
of  the  Ascension  during  the  summer,  since  the 
gifts  from  Emmanuel  and  from  his  own  people 
warranted  it ;  and  he  little  thought  that  he  had 
spent  his  last  Christmas  as  Vicar  of  the  Ascen- 
sion. 

One  of  his  boys  told  him  of  his  engagement ; 
so,  at  once,  on  January  9,  Atkinson  wrote: 
"You  deserve  her.  That  means  a  lot  the  way 
I  mean  it.  To  be  manly  enough  and  downright 
pure  enough  to  presume  to  love — no  one  has 
courage  to  say  that  for  himself.  We  all  feel 
unworthy  of  the  ones  we  love.  But  you  must 
let  me  say  it  for  you.  You  are  worthy.  It  is 
easier  to  flatter  than  to  praise  a  person.  I 
never  consciously  flattered  a  person  in  my  life. 
I  shall  not  begin  now.     The  highest  praise  I 


154         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

have  ever  given  you  (and  I  have  said  it  often) 
is  that  you  are  worthy  of  the  best  girl  I  ever 
knew.  You  would  like  to  limit  the  remark. 
I  wish  to  explain  away  no  blots.  Blemishes 
are  blemishes  and  they  cannot  be  chalked  over 
after  all,  but  where  is  the  perfectly  white  bull 
fit  for  the  perfect  sacrifice?  And  who  can  bet- 
ter stand  a  few  black  spots  than  he  whose  real 
life  is  a  life  of  whiteness?  I  believe  in  you  as 
I  believe  in  very  few  others.  I  believe  you 
make  a  worthy  lover." 

Early  in  February  he  wrote  to  an  old  chum : 
"Your  writing  was  a  sight,  a  blessed  one,  for 
my  eyes  to  rejoice  in.  Here's  a  bit  of  mine. 
Come  and  let's  do  the  old  things:  talkee, 
talkee;  walkee,  walkee;  sit  in  old  window 
seats ;  call  in  the  good  old  friends  from  Books 
and  Harvard  and  the  dear  School  itself.   .   .   . 

"Allen's  Life  is  great.  I  wish  I  had  the 
time  to  tell  you  the  different  opinions  of  those 
whom  we  love  hereabouts.  I'll  tell  you  some 
time.  The  talk  and  thought  everywhere  is  of 
nothing  else  than  of  that  great  man  who  turns 
out  to  be  greater  than  any  of  us  ever  guessed 
— whose  only  secret  of  success  was  God  and 
was  great  for  no  other  reason  than  that  he  was 


'""  THE  LAST   YEAR  IN  BOSTON  155 

a  genius.  There  is  no  need  now  to  be  envious 
of  Phillips  Brooks.  God  made  him.  Even  if 
we  tie  up  our  sermons  as  he  did  and  learn  all 
about  his  note-books  and  simile  hunts  we  can 
never  be  a  P.  B.  He  was  great  at  19.  What 
a  fool  I  was  at  19,  and  what  an  ijit  even  now! 

* '  My  eyes  are  all  right  and  you  are  a  fine  boy. ' ' 

To  another  old  friend  he  wrote  on  Febru- 
ary 20:  "How  is  the  BABY?  And  how  are 
you?     .     .     . 

"It  is  Ash  Wednesday  and  I  have  just  come 
from  a  beautiful  service  with  my  people.  The 
days  go  on  and  I  am  tied  more  and  more  to 
them.  Soon  it  will  be  with  hoops  of  steel,  and 
there  will  be  no  breaking.  It  is  an  absorbing 
work — meat  and  drink,  wife  and  children  to 
me.  Is  it  all  wrong?  Or  ought  I  even  to  re- 
double my  sacrifice  and  endeavor? 

"It  is  a  blessed  thing  to  be  a  Christian  by 
profession — to  get  paid  for  it,  and  thus  to  be 
taken  out  of  the  amateur  class.  I  wonder  if 
I  could  do  so  much  were  it  all  voluntary!  It's 
a  lonely,  Leper-Island  life,  more  than  people 
think ;  and  yet  it  is  a  privilege  to  be  doing  it 
all  the  time,  never  having  to  stop  as  other  peo- 
ple do  to  earn  a  little  between-times. 


156         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

"This  is  no  news  to  you.  This  is: — I  am  all 
well ;  my  brother  is  very  happy  in  his  work  at 
Manila  and  is  beginning  at  length  to  wear  it 
like  an  old  coat;  my  church  is  going  to  be 
built  after  all;  Emmanuel  House  is  having  a 
better  year  than  ever;  I  have  been  to  sup  at 

168    Beacon    Street,   and  with  Mr.  and 

for  a  beautiful  evening  at  the  Symphony; 

I  am  to  preach  little  outside  in  Lent,  had  to 
refuse  all  invitations  for  once ;  Phillips  Brooks's 
wonderful  biography  is  settling  into  my  soul  at 
the  rate  of  an  hour  a  day;  .  .  .  my  work 
is  at  last  fairly  well  cleared  up;  preaching  is 
more  fun  than  it  ever  was ;  Ferguson  has  writ- 
ten a  great  book — The  Religion  of  Democracy; 
.  .  .  Harvard,  the  Church,  the  Republican 
Party,  are  in  the  same  old  paths  as  when  you 
saw  them  last;  Prexy  is  in  Europe,  Bishop 
Lawrence  is  in  Europe,  Dr.  Parks  is  in  Europe 
— they  all  seem  to  be  out  of  danger  (of  work) 
except  McKinley." 

Eight  days  later  he  wrote  to  Allen  Rice:  "I 
never  had  so  much  to  be  grateful  for — such 
friendships,  such  confidences,  so  much  of  God's 
good  work  to  do,  Heaven  never  so  kind  to  me. 

"Do  not  tell  any  one  of  my  financial  flurry. 


THE  LAST  YEAR  IN  BOSTON  1 5/ 

Clifton  Place  will  soon  be  at  ease  again,  and 
Wall  Street  and  Threadneedle  Street  may  go 
back  once  more  to  their  lesser  problems." 

After  Easter  he  wrote:  "My  Easter  was  a 
great  joy  again.  In  spite  of  the  awful  storm, 
hundreds  were  turned  away:  6i  were  con- 
firmed, and  20  baptized.  The  offering  was 
over  $350.00,  $236.16  being  for  church  en- 
largement. I  never  was  happier.  The  church 
is  to  be  enlarged  at  once — completed  Septem- 
ber  15. 

"The  Bishop  returns  soon.  An  interesting 
convention:  new  diocese  or  coadjutor.  I  say 
newdiocese  with  Endicott  Peabody  bishop.  .  .  . 

"Harvard  is  changing  in  outward  appear- 
ance so  rapidly  that  youd.  hardly  know  it.  The 
School  had  a  great  Quiet  Day  with  Drown — 
one  of  the  best.  St.  Paul's  won't  sell  out  for 
$1,500,000,000,000,000,000,  or  any  old  price. 

"The  Church  of  the  Epiphany,  N.  Y.,  is 
looking  my  way  again.     What  sayest  thou? .  .  . 

"Here  comes  Bumpus  and  I  must  get  to 
work  again — he  may  see  me  enjoying  my- 
self." 

April  19  he  wrote  to  his  brother  Harry:  "Saw 
L'Aiglon  last  night.     Had  a  seat  in  the  sixth 


158  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINS017 

row.  Was  thr-r-rilled  thr-r-rough  and  thr-r- 
rough.     .     .     . 

' '  Did  I  tell  you  Mrs.  Bunnell  left  me  $500.00? 
It  made  me  happy  to  think  I  could  be  such  a 
model  boarder  that  the  landlady  would  remem- 
ber me  in  her  will." 

About  this  time,  two  strangers  of  distin- 
guished appearance  sat  one  Sunday  morning 
in  one  of  the  front  pews  of  the  Church  of  the 
Ascension.  Atkinson  preached  on  Knowing 
God,  and  the  strangers  gave  him  eager  atten- 
tion; but  Atkinson  did  not  see  them.  After 
the  service  they  waited  to  speak  to  him,  but 
he  did  not  come — for  as  he  entered  the  robing- 
room,  a  father  was  waiting  to  ask  him  to  go 
immediately  to  talk  with  his  poor  boy,  who 
was  committed  to  the  penitentiary.  So  the 
strangers  had  no  opportunity  to  speak  with 
Atkinson,  but  they  had  decided  that  he  was 
the  one  man  on  earth  that  they  must  have  for 
the  Church  of  the  Epiphany  in  New  York. 

It  was  characteristic  that  he  should  be  called 
away  just  before  or  just  after  service.  One 
morning  just  before  the  service  began  he  was 
suddenly  asked  to  go  and  have  prayers  with  a 
woman  who  had  fallen  from  a  window  and  had 


THE  LAST    YEAR  IN  BOSTON  1 59 

been  crushed  on  the  pavement  below.  The 
strain  of  seeing  her  and  of  giving  to  her  her 
last  Communion  was  unnerving.  He  came 
back  just  as  the  service  was  to  begin ;  and  one 
of  the  choir  men  immediately  pounced  upon 
him  to  attack  certain  views  which  he  had  re- 
cently expressed  in  a  sermon.  It  was  a  triv- 
ial matter  to  bring  up  at  such  a  moment;  it 
was  the  last  straw;  Atkinson's  patience  broke 
down,  and  he  fell  upon  the  man  with  a  sound 
rebuke.  In  the  service  afterward  he  mentioned, 
in  a  general  way,  how  hard  it  often  was  for 
him  to  maintain  the  same  even  exterior,  for 
people  could  not  always  know  what  trying 
moments  lay  in  the  immediate  background  of 
his  experience. 

Charitable  and  hopeful  as  he  was,  he  was 
sometimes  severe.  A  classmate  whom  he  dis- 
covered to  be  untruthful  he  dropped  at  once 
and  forever:  to  be  a  liar  was  the  blackest  sin  in 
his  books.  When  a  woman,  through  him,  had 
borrowed  money  of  another  woman,  and  then 
took  the  debt  lightly  and  refused  to  pay,  he 
wrote  her  a  fierce  letter — mingled  with  such 
kindness  as  made  its  real  meaning  only  the 
more  evident — demanding  that  she  pay  at  once 


l6o  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

or  make  ready  to  meet  the  law.  With  profes- 
sionally disagreeable  people  he  had  no  pa- 
tience. One  day  when  a  woman  had  been 
terribly  annoying,  a  woman  of  the  parish  said, 
"She  always  does  so — it's  just  her  way." 
"Well,"  said  Atkinson,  "all  I've  got  to  say  is 
that  people  are  responsible  for  their  ways  !  " 

In  May  the  inevitable  call  to  the  Epiphany 
came  in  due  form,  and  Atkinson  weighed  it 
sufficiently  to  ask  all  his  friends  what  they 
thought  of  it.  With  almost  a  unanimous 
voice  they  told  him  to  go.  The  Boston  work 
was  wearing  him  out  rapidly.  Experts  told 
him  he  might  live  for  ten  years  in  it;  if  he 
went  to  New  York,  he  was  good  for  twenty  at 
least.  It  was  a  call  to  serve  the  Church  in  the 
largest  way.  The  parish  to  which  he  was  in- 
vited had,  as  he  afterwards  said,  "a  decent 
rich  and  a  worthy  poor."  He  could  still  use 
his  Boston  experience,  therefore,  to  good  ends, 
and  he  would  have  the  immediate  response 
to  his  most  careful  preaching.  His  Harvard 
friends,  with  youthful  enthusiasm,  begged  him 
to  go  where  he  could  help  many  as  he  had 
helped  them.  Dr.  Donald's  advice,  perhaps, 
had  most  weight  when  he   said  that  a  man 


THE  LAST   YEAR  IN  BOSTON  l6l 

fitted  to  be  a  professor  at  Harvard  should  not 
spend  his  life  in  kindergarten  work.  Dr.  Don- 
ald advised  him  also  of  the  risks:  "I  am  sure," 
Dr.  Donald  wrote,  "that  you  will  do  good 
work  there;  and  I  hope  that  you  will  splen- 
didly succeed.  I  do  not  feel  so  sure  of  the  suc- 
cess, for  the  reason  that  no  man  can  prophesy 
with  certainty  what  man  is  to  succeed  in  New 
York  City.  I  have  seen  the  very  best  men 
fail,  and  mediocre  men  succeed.  But,  this 
aside,  I  am  sure  that  you  will  mean  to  the  Epi- 
phany a  power  of  good  work  and  of  moral  in- 
fluence and  of  regeneration.  We  ministers  are 
tempted  to  work  for  the  salvation  of  parishes: 
it  is  a  mistake.  Our  sole  endeavor  should  be  to 
labor  for  the  salvation  of  souls ;  that  is,  the  up- 
building of  individual  lives.  If  the  parish,  as 
a  parish,  prospers,  so  much  the  better;  if  it 
does  not,  it  is  not  significant.  The  decay  of 
the  parish  is  nothing:  the  strengthening  of 
weak  wills,  the  illumination  of  dim  consciences 
and  the  inspiration  of  hopeless  people,  means 
everything. ' ' 

To  Dr.  Parks,  who  was  in  Switzerland,  he 
wrote  at  once,  but,  through  a  series  of  acci- 
dents, the  reply  did  not  reach  him  till  the  end 


1 62         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

of  June.  From  previous  letters  he  knew  that 
Dr.  Parks  would  tell  him  that  he  might  safely 
leave  the  Ascension  in  others'  hands,  but  he 
did  not  announce  his  decision  till  he  had  re- 
ceived Dr.  Parks's  formal  consent.  Meantime, 
he  said  to  his  intimates,  "No,  I  have  not  de- 
cided; but  I  am  going." 

' '  I  am  so  sorry  and  so  glad, ' '  wrote  Dr.  Parks, 
" — sorry  first,  because  I  am  selfish.  But  in- 
deed I  am  glad  to  think  that  this  new  work  is 
what  you  want.  I  will  not  tell  you  what  your 
loss  will  be — you  would  not  understand.  But 
when  you  are  responsible  for  more  work  than 
you  can  do  and  find  a  man  who  does  his  share 
faithfully  and  cheerfully — who  does  not  have 
to  be  prodded,  but  is  always  ahead  of  you — 
well,  you  will  love  that  fellow!    .     .     . 

"Bishop  Lawrence  is  right:  other  calls  will 
come,  but  if  this  one  gives  you  the  opportunity 
for  better  work,  go — and  the  Lord  be  with 
you." 

Then  came  the  telling  of  his  decision  to  the 
congregation.  By  this  time  the  church  was 
torn  up  for  the  rebuilding,  and  the  parish  was 
worshipping  in  the  little  hall  on  West  Concord 
Street,  where,  ten  years  before,  the  whole  work 


THE  LAST    YEAR  IN  BOSTON  163 

had  been  started.  Atkinson  had  done  his  best 
to  make  the  dingy  room  look  like  a  church,  but 
it  was  not  attractive  and  it  was  oppressively 
hot.  It  was,  moreover,  a  little  out  of  the  way, 
and  was  reached  only  by  a  hard  flight  of  stairs. 
So,  altogether,  only  the  most  faithful  were  con- 
stantly there.  "It  was  here,"  writes  one  who 
was  in  the  congregation,  "that  he  had  to  tell 
the  people  of  his  having  accepted  the  call  to 
New  York,  and  I  never  shall  forget  his  face. 
It  seemed  to  bear  the  burden  of  all  their  grief 
and  need  and  his  own  yearning  love.  He  had 
to  stop  over  and  over  to  gain  control  of  his 
choking  voice  in  his  little  talk  which  took  the 
place  of  the  sermon.  He  urged  them  to  re- 
member how  people  could  be  together  in  spirit 
though  physically  as  far  apart  as  the  globe. 
He  spoke  of  the  man  (who  was  it?)  whose  wish 
was  that,  after  he  had  gone,  people  would  say, 
'  How  he  loved  us ! ' — so,  he  said,  he  wanted  his 
people  to  dwell  not  so  much  on  their  love  for 
him,  but  to  remember  always  and  say  of  him, 
'How  he  loved  us! '  I  remember  how  at  last 
he  turned  away  from  us,  exclaiming,  'Oh,  I 
don't  see  how  I  ever  can  leave  you ! '  Then 
suddenly  he  knelt  down  and  remained  on  his 


164         EDWAUD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

knees  a  long  time ;  and  the  people  fell  on  their 
knees  and  I  think  nearly  all  were  weeping. 
Afterwards  he  shut  himself  up  in  his  robing- 
room  for  fear  of  breaking  down." 

His  summer  vacation  he  spent  with  an  old 
chum  and  his  wife  in  the  Adirondacks.  Day 
after  day,  week  after  week,  they  drove,  walked 
and  rowed.  They  tried  to  read  aloud,  but  he 
was  always  stopping  the  reading  to  talk.  He 
talked  of  Maeterlinck,  Stevenson,  Whitman, 
and  the  rest;  and  then,  in  another  vein,  of 
Kingsley,  Maurice,  Chinese  Gordon  and  Brooks. 
The  only  cloud  in  his  bright  sky  was  the  thought 
of  leaving  the  Ascension.  '  *  Boston,  "he  wrote, 
"and  my  dear  people  are  in  all  my  dreams, 
waking  and  sleeping."  And  then,  speaking 
of  the  impending  change,  he  added:  "I  would 
throw  the  whole  thing  up  if  I  could.  It  seems 
to  me  God  is  giving  me  in  my  life  every  test  of 
loneliness." 

Returning  to  Boston  in  September,  he  pre- 
pared himself  to  finish  his  Boston  work.  "My 
new  church  here  is  beautiful,"  he  wrote.  "I 
could  not  go  into  the  New  York  one.  I  went 
up  to  it  and  began  to  weep  like  a  baby.  So  I 
turned  back." 


THE  LAST   YEAR  IN  BOSTON  165 

Nor  did  he  forget  his  old-time  friends.  To 
his  friend  Eliot  White,  who,  he  feared,  was 
working  too  hard  at  Worcester,  he  wrote:  "My 
chief  word  now  is  the  old  one  of  love  with  a 
new  sombre  tint  (so  full  of  love,  too)  of  care 
about  your  health.  Do  not  worry  all  over; 
let  part  of  that  good  make-up  of  yours  rest 
while  the  other  works;  head,  heart,  nerves, 
body,  must  not  go  it  all  at  once  all  the  time. 
Seek  repose,  dear  Eliot — say  that  for  one  day 
you  will  only  read,  or  go  to  the  woods,  or  only 
muse.  I  want  to  talk  about  this  when  I  see 
you.  I  know  how  to  burn  the  candle  at  both 
ends  and  how  to  make  life  one  long,  sweet 
buzz-saw.  Please,  if  that  is  your  aim,  let  me 
tell  you  how  to  do  it  with  deathly  certainty." 

He  was  profoundly  moved  by  President  Mc- 
Kinley's  noble  resignation  in  his  death,  and 
in  the  light  of  it  all  wrote,  September  21: 
"Here  I  sit  before  the  western  sky,  thinking 
of  you  and  of  things  which  the  rumble  of 
human  voices  (with  now  and  then  a  word  or  a 
whole  phrase  escaping),  coming  up  from  the 
street  below,  sets  my  mind  on.  How  I  want 
to  talk  with  you !  Oh,  we  must  not  live  so 
much  apart.     I  have  just  been  reading  in  some 


l66  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

old  bibelots — there  were  so  many  thoughts 
rushing  in  and  breaking  against  my  empty  life. 
Not  empty  of  work,  let  us  be  candid,  but 
empty  of  indulgence  in  friendship.  How  I 
have  always  loved,  and  yet  kept  back.  I  seem 
never  to  be  with  my  dearest  friends.  Always 
counting  on  the  eternal  day  coming.  We  are 
now  in  the  eternal  day.  Can  I  not  have  more 
of  you?  Why  go  to  New  York  to  be  whirled 
with  the  thousands,  if  I  cannot  pick  you  out 
and  be  with  you  more? 

"There  is  such  a  melody  between  us,  too. 
Oh,  never  have  I  known  before  (awkward)  all 
that  shell-song  you  and  I  hear  so  easily — 
precious  because  all  friends  may  know  it,  yet 
precious  because  so  rarely  listened  for.  And  do 
I  not  think  of  that  sweet,  palpitating,  golden- 
haired  string  which  makes  sweet  music  for 
you,  and  you  have  let  come  generously,  so  gen- 
erously, to  me?  How  it  laughs  with  its  healthy 
song  as  I  listen  now  for  it  from  that  hill-top ! 

"You  have  given  so  much.  Can  I  not  talk 
more  and  listen  more?  When  can  I  see  you? 
Come  here  this  week  or  let  me  come.  Say 
which. 

"I  speak,  preach,  to-morrow  on  a  few  things 


THE  LAST   YEAR  IN  BOSTON  1 6/ 

the  events  of  the  past  two  weeks  have  put  into 
italics :  The  witness  of  that  majestic  death  for 
love  and  God-love.  The  things  which  have 
made  us  all  kin  in  these  precious  days.  The 
optimism  of  service  and  affection.  How  we 
lesser  ones  can  bear  our  witness  too.  Needs 
not  a  President.     .     .     . 

"  *  I  was  some  time  in  being  burned, 
But  at  the  close  a  Hand  came  through 
The  fire  above  my  head,  and  drew 
My  soul  to  Christ,  whom  now  I  see.' 

To  bear  our  humble  witness,  a  beloved  mar- 
tyrdom ;  then  the  ecstasy !  at  the  close  to  see 
the  Hand  come  through.  'Christ  whom  now 
I  see' — ever  to  be  able  to  say  that." 

Atkinson  found  it  almost  hardest  of  all  to 
leave  his  Boston  children.  As  a  friend  said 
once,  children  were  nearly  dazed  by  his  affin- 
ity for  them — they  gravitated  to  him  by  a  sort 
of  fascination.  To  his  own  nieces  and  neph- 
ews he  talked  as  if  he  were  a  child  himself,  and 
he  was  always  selecting  books  for  them.  Once 
he  was  trying  to  influence  a  man  to  a  right  life 
and  went  to  his  home  to  see  him.  "I  found 
there,"  he  said,  "three  of  the  dearest  little 


l68  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

children  you  ever  saw.  What  could  I  say  to 
that  father?  I  just  put  my  arms  around  those 
dear  little  children  and  I  said,  'If  God  had 
blessed  me  with  such  children  as  these,  don't 
you  think  I'd  fight  for  them,  and  work  for 
them,  and  be  proud  to!"  At  another  time, 
when  giving  out  notices  in  church,  he  asked 
for  one  or  two  volunteers  to  help  the  regular 
teachers  at  the  kindergarten  at  Emmanuel 
House,  where  there  were  so  many  children 
that  it  was  a  real  task  to  put  on  their  wraps  and 
start  them  for  home.  "Why,"  he  exclaimed, 
with  sudden  enthusiasm,  "I'd  like  nothing 
better  myself,  if  I  had  the  time!  I'd  just  love 
to  put  on  their  little  jackets  and  tie  on  their 
little  caps  for  them !  "  There  was  reason  why 
the  children  should  love  him;  and  they  did. 
One  of  them,  quite  of  her  own  motion,  always 
included  him  in  her  prayers.  She  had  called 
him  "Big-tall-man" — a  name  she  kept  to  the 
end.  "Bless,"  she  prayed,  "dear  Big-tall- 
man,  and  take  care  of  him  and  make  him  well 
and  strong  and  happy  and  fat — and  jolly  in  the 
morning."  Then  she  always  whispered  some- 
thing, quite  under  her  breath.  At  last  her 
mother  asked  her  what  it  was  that  she  whis- 


THE  LAST   YEAR  IN  BOSTON  169 

pered.  "And  make  his  hair  grow,"  was  the 
reply.  After  he  went  to  New  York  she  added: 
"Keep  him  safe  and  bring  him  home  safe  to 
us."     And  she  prays  it  all  still. 

But  all  came  to  an  end  at  last.  The  people 
met  him  in  the  Parish  House  to  say  good-by. 
One  read  a  poem,  simple  and  sincere: 


"  Good-by  !  the  love,  the  grief,  the  vain  regret, 
The  cherished  hope  we  knew  and  feel  are  met 
In  that  one  word,  so  old,  so  sadly  new — 
Alas  !  alas  !  that  it  is  ours  to  you  ! " 


And  then  came  the  last  service  together  in 
the  new  church,  when  by  a  pathetic  accident 
the  lights  went  out  just  as  the  choristers  and 
clergy  entered  the  chancel.  He  directed  the 
placing  of  the  lamps,  swiftly,  and  then  went  on 
with  the  service.  "After  all,"  he  said,  as  he 
addressed  the  people,  "it  is  fortunate  that  we 
have  so  little  light  to-night.  It  is  easier  for  me 
to  say  the  hard  words  I  am  saying,  when  I  can- 
not see  the  faces  of  the  people  I  love." 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE  YEAR  IN  NEW   YORK 

MANY  kind  letters  from  the  New  York 
Vestry — especially  from  Mr.  Russell, 
the  Senior  Warden — had  warned  Atkinson  of 
the  fine  year  that  was  before  him ;  but  even  so 
he  was  not  fully  prepared  for  the  real  welcome 
that  awaited  him.  On  November  5,  1901,  when 
he  had  been  in  his  new  parish  five  days,  he 
wrote:  "It  is  the  whitest  crowd  you  ever  saw. 
They  met  me  at  the  hotel  and  took  me  to  a 
banquet  at  the  University  Club.  It  was  a  per- 
fect feast  of  good  things.  They  said  such,  bully 
things.  The  next  morning  I  received  a  check  for 
$i,ooo.cx3  (one  thousand) — perhaps  you  don't 
see!  thousand!  'Advance  payment,*  they 
said,  'for  the  first  quarter  ending  January  i* 
— thus  throwing  in  a  month's  pay  for  October. 

"Friday  night  Fess  came  to  dinner  and  we 
saw  the  Messenger  Boy,  which  was  very  funny. 

"  Saturday  night  I  dined  with  the  Russells. 


1 


THE    YEAR  IN  NEW   YORK  I/I 

Saturday  noon  I  had  luncheon  at  the  Univer- 
sity Club  with  a  vestryman.  Saturday  morning 
I  saw  Bishop  Potter  and  received  a  warm  wel- 
come. 

"Sunday  morning  I  got  through  well,  though 
was  nervous.  The  church  is  beautiful  beyond 
anything  I  imagined.  Not  large ;  it  seats  650 ; 
a  smallish  chancel  but  pretty,  and  a  fine  chan- 
cel window  and  a  good  pulpit.  A  fine  recep- 
tion all  round  I  received.  Must  tell  you  some 
time.  Carl  Burdick  and  Bugbee  were  there 
and  six  or  eight  other  old  friends. 

"Monday,  Dr.  Huntington,  the  greatest 
rector  in  New  York,  came  to  call  on  me.   .   .   . 

"New  York  is  a  humming  place,  but  I  am 
trying  to  keep  cool." 

After  another  week  of  work  and  observation 
he  wrote  to  his  brother:  "The  choir  is  very 
poor,  so  the  service  is  poor  and  cold.  The  con- 
gregation is  not  large,  but  increasing,  very 
attentive  and  hospitable  looking,  and  a  lot  of 
manly  men.  The  evening  service  is  the  abomi- 
nation of  desolation.  But  you  wait !  The  Par- 
ish House  is  beautiful  and  beautifully  kept, 
but  small.  The  sexton  is  a  star  and  the  parish 
visitor  very,  very  nice. 


172  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

"So  many  and  celebrated  clergymen  are  call- 
ing upon  me  that  my  head  is  nearly  turned.  I 
have  got  to  work  hard,  but,  oh ! — such  intelli- 
gent cooperation — I  say  and  it  is  done — such 
willingness  to  be  led  and  directed — such  little 
fear  of  'hurting  feelings  ' !  " 

Another  week  passed  and  he  wrote  to  one  of 
his  Boston  friends:  "This  is  a  church  like  no 
other  in  New  York — a  quiet,  country,  home- 
like, family-pew  church,  right  in  the  district  of 
clubs  and  hotels.  You  can  guess  it  is  a  church 
after  my  own  heart.  If  I  can  keep  cool  and 
quiet  and  make  it  go,  I  shall  end  my  days  here. 
It  is  not  a  fashionable  church  in  any  sense, 
though  it  has  hosts  of  fashionable  people  and 
the  quieter  members  of  loud  families.  It  is 
fine.  I  am  impatient  to  get  ahead,  to  make 
more  marked  its  exceptional  and  beautiful 
characteristics. 

"My  apartments  are  rather  more  dashing 
than  I  wished.  But  they  look  as  if  they  could 
be  made  very  pretty  and  homely.  The  wood 
is  white  enamel,  and  I  shall  have  shelves  as  at 
I  Clifton  Place.  For  this,  much  praise !  The 
Colonial  furniture  (which  you  are  selecting  for 
mc)  will  be  the  right  thing." 


THE   CHURCH   OF   THE   EPIPHANY,    NEW   YORK 


THE    YEAR  IN  NEW   YORK  1/3 

November  26  he  wrote  to  Allen  Rice :  "  There 
are  simply  no  words  in  tlje  English  tongua  to 
tell  you  how  I  feel  except '  22  to  o. '  If  any  one 
does  not  know  how  that  feels,  I  am  sorry  for 
him.  Every  Harvard  man  does.  It  is  a  joy 
to  make  one  laugh,  and  honestly,  old  Allen, 
it  made  my  tears  come  too.  I  was  down  in 
Stanton  Street,  the  crowdiest  community  on 
the  American  Continent,  visiting  the  Pro-Ca- 
thedral Mission.  When  I  got  on  the  car  to 
come  home,  a  dirty,  fat,  ill-dressed  mechanic 
sat  down  beside  me  and  pulled  out  an  evening 
paper.  It  was  then  about  half-past  four  or 
nearly  five.  As  I  looked  over  his  shoulder  I 
read,  '  Harvard  is  tearing  up  the  Yale  line  like 
paper.'  I  said  to  my  friend,  'Has  Harvard 
scored?'  He  said,  'I  don't  know;  I  am  only 
six  lines  down.'  Then  a  gentleman  across  the 
aisle  poked  me  with  a  cane  and  said,  '  Harvard, 
17  to  o.  First  half.'  I  said  I  was  a  Harvard 
man  and  hardly  ever  missed  a  game.  I  was  so 
happy  and  with  no  one  really  to  talk  to  that  I 
got  off  the  car  and  soon  found  myself  walking 
up  the  Bowery  crying  like  a  baby.  I  should 
have  been  there  to  see,  but  I  can  stay  away 
forever  if  we  only  win  every  time. 


174         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

"So  I  am  feeling  22  to  o. 

"Fess  writes,  'Come  to  dine  with  us:  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  the  late  unpleasantness  at 
Cambridge.*  " 

Dining  with  a  parishioner  immediately  after 
this,  he  won  the  hearts  of  the  sons  of  the  fam- 
ily by  talking  constantly  of  the  game.  The 
women  tried  to  turn  the  conversation;  but  in 
vain.  For  two  hours  the  boys  kept  him  at 
work  with  his  thrilling  descriptions  of  the  men 
on  the  teams  and  their  heroic  plays,  till  the 
women  themselves  also  became  enthusiasts. 

He  was  ordinarily  (except  Sunday  and  Wed- 
nesday, when  he  had  a  service)  at  a  parishioner's 
dinner-table  each  night.  At  Mr.  Russell's  he 
was  a  constant  guest,  often  sitting  with  him 
in  his  library  till  late  into  the  night.  Both 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Russell  soon  counted  him  as  a 
dearly  loved  friend,  and  were  glad  that  their 
young  sons  evidently  adored  him  at  first  sight ; 
for,  as  the  boys  grew  fonder  and  fonder  of  him, 
the  parents  dreamed  what  it  would  mean  to 
have  such  a  hero  in  the  flesh  to  be  a  friend 
and  example  through  school,  through  college 
and  into  the  life  of  the  world.  So  it  must  have 
been  in  many  homes.    Boys  were  already  gath- 


THE    YEAR  IN  NEW   YORK  1/5 

ering  about  him :  they  played  ping-pong  in  his 
big  bedroom ;  they  cooked  in  his  chafing-dish, 
and  set  hot  things  on  his  mahogany  tables, 
whereupon  he  groaned  inwardly  and  soothed 
their  worried  feelings.  He  had  asked  all  the 
Sunday-school  children  to  speak  to  him  on 
the  street;  a  few  days  after,  a  very  small  boy 
rushed  up  to  shake  hands.  "Do  you  belong 
to  my  Sunday-school  ? ' '  asked  Atkinson.  ' '  Oh, 
no,"  was  the  answer,  "but  the  fellers  said  you 
liked  to  shake  hands:  so  I  thought  I  would!" 
He  often  complained  of  the  good  manners  of 
the  urchins  in  New  York.  "In  Boston,"  he 
said,  "they  used  to  shout  after  me,  'Donkey,' 
'Long  Ears,'  'Daddy-long-legs,'  or  something 
friendly,  but  here  they  don't  even  notice 
me." 

Among  the  gracious  acts  of  his  welcome  to 
New  York  was  a  dinner  which  Mr.  Russell  gave 
in  his  honor,  at  which  Bishop  Potter  and  the 
rectors  of  the  larger  parishes  were  the  guests; 
also  another  dinner  was  given  by  Mr.  Nichols 
of  Holy  Trinity,  where  he  met  many  of  the 
younger  clergy  of  the  city;  very  soon,  too,  the 
Harvard  Club  held  out  a  welcoming  hand.  A 
week  before  Christmas  he  wrote:  "My  people 


176  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

are  simply  grand — such  hospitality,  coSperation 
and  appreciation  you  never  saw.  I  no  longer 
have  to  pay  for  dinners,  and  the  quickness  with 
which  I  am  becoming  acquainted  is  wonderful. 
I  am  far  from  a  howling  success,  but  things  are 
picking  up. 

"I  have  preached  the  best  the  last  two  Sun- 
days, and  all  sorts  of  undeserved  good  things 
have  been  said.  Last  Sunday  it  was  the  Priest- 
hood of  All  Christians;  the  Sunday  before, 
What  the  Bible  Is.  The  Sunday  before  went 
well,  too — Jerusalem  which  is  from  Above  is 
Free.  I  am  happy,  but  I  am  so  lacking  in  con- 
fidence in  myself,  and  I  know  how  bad,  bad, 
bad  my  quick,  nervous  utterance  is,  and  how 
my  first  impression  upon  people  is  always  bad. 
I  never  was  so  conscious  of  my  gross  upon 
gross  of  limitations." 

December  2^^  he  wrote : "  I  had  such  a  blessed 
Christmas  .  .  .  and  then  I  had  such  a 
helper  in  my  Christmas-day  service — a  sort  of 
Prince  Curate.  "Who  should  come  unlooked- 
for  and  unheralded  but  Bishop  Potter!  In 
robes  and  scarlet  hood  he  marched  behind  me. 
He  took  the  Communion  Service  and  made 
some  remarks  to  the  congregation.     (He  spoke 


THE    YEAR  IN  NEW   YORK  1/7 

of  me  and  of  my  coming  from  Boston  and  all 
so  friendly.)  I  preached:  'And  we  Beheld  His 
Glory.*  .  .  .  Bishop  Potter  was  nice  about 
it  all;  the  congregation  was  very  large  and 
the  service  much  the  best  that  we  have  had. 
It  did  help  a  lot :  it  made  the  people  so  happy, 
and  it  made  me  feel  at  last  that  these  were 
indeed  my  people.  The  offering  was  $800.69 
(Brag)  .  .  .  But  I  do  miss  Boston  and  my 
dear  friends  there  dreadfully." 

Toward  the  end  of  January  he  went  to  Boston 
to  deliver  the  chief  address  at  the  Children's 
Missionary  Rally  in  Emmanuel  Church  for  all 
the  Boston  Sunday-schools.  He  preached  at 
Beverly  in  the  morning,  at  Emmanuel  in  the 
afternoon,  and  at  the  Ascension  in  the  even- 
ing. It  was  at  the  children's  service  that  he 
told  the  story  of  the  small  girl  which  has  gone 
through  the  Church:  he  once  met,  he  said,  a 
little  girl  carrying  a  heavy  baby:  "Aren't  you 
tired,"  he  asked  her,  "carrying  that  heavy 
baby?"  "Oh,  no,"  she  answered,  "he's  not 
heavy — he's  my  brother!''  It  was  one^of  the 
real  stories  he  had  told  All  Saints'  Day  at  the 
Ascension  a  year  before.  After  this  great 
service  he  was  talking  with  the  Bishop  and 
12 


178  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

Other  clergy  in  the  robing-room,  when  some 
one  came  to  say  that  the  Ascension  children 
were  gathered  in  the  chapel  and  positively  re- 
fused to  stir  a  step  till  they  had  seen  Mr.  At- 
kinson, though  the  other  children  were  scat- 
tering by  hundreds.  Atkinson  said  afterwards 
that  he  felt  as  St.  Francis  must  have  felt  on 
coming  back  to  Assisi.  Those  who  could  not 
get  near  enough  to  get  his  hand  tried  to  touch 
his  coat.  It  was  the  first  welcome  home  to  his 
old  parish.  "There  was  a  magnificent  congre- 
gation at  Beverly,"  he  wrote,  "and  the  2,000 
children  at  Emmanuel  were  inspiring.  But 
my  real  triumph  was  the  service  at  the  Church 
of  the  Ascension  in  the  evening.  It  was  packed 
to  the  doors,  and  they  all  walked  over  each 
other  to  get  at  me,  so  that  I  felt  like  a  saint. 
I  never  had  such  an  ovation.  The  boys  said 
it  was  all  the  congregation  could  do  not  to 
applaud." 

Monday  night  he  read  a  paper  before  the 
Twenty  Club.  Taking  for  his  subject  the  Sun- 
day morning  service,  he  exposed  with  droll 
force  the  mistakes  whereby  the  Sunday  service 
is  made  death  to  enthusiasm  and  religion,  and, 
with  the  ardor  of  a  simple  reverence,  he  showed 


THE    YEAR  IN  NEW   YORK  1 79 

how  easily  it  could  be  made  the  divine  thing 
in  a  man's  week.  Bishop  Brent  carried  his 
praise  of  the  speech  to  Atkinson's  brother  in 
Manila,  and  Bishop  Lawrence  joined  the  de- 
parting missionary  in  amazement  that  a  sub- 
ject so  old  could  be  made  so  fresh.  "I  think 
I  never  had  a  better  time  in  my  life, ' '  wrote  the 
grateful  Atkinson,  "but  there  was  a  nasty 
anti-climax:  I  came  back  to  New  York  with  an 
ulcerated  tooth,  and  for  a  day  the  agony  was 
equal  to  the  old  eye  trouble." 

In  February  he  wrote :  "My  things  are  going 
beautifully.  The  church  was  almost  packed 
yesterday  and  everybody  is  saying  I  am  a  suc- 
cess. Of  course  I  am  far  from  it,  but  it  does 
look  encouraging." 

One  of  his  parishioners  was  beginning  to  sus- 
pect that  in  spite  of  much  dining  out  and  much 
work,  his  life  was  lonely  and  crowded  with 
formalities.  So  the  second  time  she  invited 
him  to  dinner,  she  asked  him  not  to  dress;  and 
he  wrote  with  appreciation,  "It  will  be  one 
added  joy  and  quite  Boston-like  to  come  with- 
out war-paint."  After  that  he  went  to  that 
dinner-table  informally,  usually  from  an  hour 
to  half  an  hour  before  the  time  fixed,  and  would 


l8o         EDIVAUD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

sit  in  the  dusk  chatting.  The  drawing-room 
was  a  small  one,  with  but  five  chairs.  There 
was  a  long,  low  stool  between  the  windows, 
where  the  hostess  always  sat  when  she  had 
guests.  After  his  third  or  fourth  visit,  Atkinson 
discovered  this,  and  used  always  to  go  for  the 
stool,  on  which  he  looked  like  some  gigantic 
grasshopper.  When  urged  to  take  a  more 
comfortable  seat,  he  would  say,  "No,  you  can't 
have  it ;  it  makes  me  feel  like  one  of  the  fam- 
ily." This  same  genial  hostess  says  that  he 
had  an  amused  contempt  for  feminine  interfer- 
ence in  civic  affairs.  She  one  day  brought  him 
a  notice  for  the  Parish  House  Bulletin  Board. 
"What  is  it?"  he  inquired — "oh,  I  see — an- 
other of  your  civic  things!  All  right!  I'll 
stick  it  up — the  board  is  so  full  that  it  probably 
won't  be  noticed."  On  another  occasion  she 
asked  him  how  the  sewing-school  was  coming 
on.  "Splendidly,"  he  replied,  "it's  a  great 
work,  great  work."  His  hostess  said  that  she 
had  always  thought  it  the  least  interesting  of 
activities;  whereupon  he  leaned  forward  and 
said  with  the  same  enthusiasm,  ** Deadly  dull; 
don't  see  how  anybody  can  do  it — but  it's  a 
great  work,  all  the  same !"   She  asked  him  how 


THE    YEAR  IN  NEW   YORK  l8l 

he  liked  a  certain  energetic  girl:  "Well,"  he 
aswered,  "I'm  a  hustler  myself,  so  I  prefer 
another  variety  on  my  afternoon  out!"  In- 
viting him  to  a  tea  one  afternoon,  she  put  under 
the  "4  until  7,"  "Come  early  if  you  can,  as  I 
want  you  to  meet  a  friend  who  will  be  here." 
He  arrived  at  four  and  stayed  till  seven.  As  he 
was  going  he  said,  "What  is  the  name  of  that 
man  over  there? — he's  coming  to  the  Epiphany 
soon."  Telling  him,  she  expostulated:  "You 
have  been  talking  shop?  I  wanted  you  to 
play."  "It's  been  play,"  he  said.  "What's 
that  hymn  the  Unitarians  sing — 

"  •  Rope  them  in,  rope  them  in, 
Rope  them  in  from  the  fields  *  ?  " 

One  of  his  traits  that  delighted  both  host  and 
hostess  was  the  natural  way  he  answered  any 
religious  question:  there  was  no  attempt  to 
argue  or  to  influence,  so  far  as  one  could  see ; 
with  a  subdued  excitement  he  said  his  convic- 
tions as  if  he  were  thinking  aloud:  one  knew 
that  it  was  all  real  and  vital  to  him.  He  sug- 
gested to  these  two  warm  friends  that,  when  a 
year  later  he  took  possession  of  the  Rectory, 
they  take  the  two  upper  floors.     "But  it  isn't 


1 82  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

arranged  for  two  families,"  was  the  objection: 
"think  of  having  the  ice  go  upstairs  just  as  the 
senior  warden  came  to  call  on  you !  "  "Oh," 
said  Atkinson,  "that's  perfectly  easy:  you  can 
have  a  rope  and  pulley  outside  your  kitchen 
window  and  have  things  go  up  from  the  back 
yard!"  One  summer  evening  he  wore  a  new 
suit,  and  they  exclaimed  at  his  many  fine 
clothes.  "I  never  have  many  at  once,"  he  ex- 
plained; "somebody  always  comes  along  who 
needs  some,  and  it's  pleasanter  to  them  to  take 
mine  than  money  to  buy  new  ones,  so  mine 
never  have  a  chance  to  wear  out."  This  had 
been  a  practice  throughout  his  ministry,  es- 
pecially when  a  man  was  seeking  a  position 
and  felt  himself  too  shabby  to  stand  before  an 
employer. 

In  May  he  wrote:  "I  am  in  good  order,  but 
I  am  rather  tired  from  an  overdose  of  parish 
calling.  I  have  called  on  every  person  living 
west  of  Third  Avenue  in  my  parish.  Now  I 
shall  begin  to  call  on  the  East-siders,  whom  I 
know  I  shall  enjoy.  I  have  had  to  give  so  much 
of  my  first  year  to  the  swell  side  of  my  parish 
that  I  am  a  little  homesick  for  the  humble 
people.    I  have  got  my  new  choirmaster  and  he 


THE   YEAR  IN  NEW   YORK  1 83 

is  a  comfort.  I  am  looking  for  an  assistant : 
do  you  know  of  a  nice  nimble-footed,  healthy- 
minded  fellow  who  would  be  it?  I  have  a  per- 
fect parish  visitor.  So  if  I  can  hump  myself  a 
little,  success  may  at  least  wink  in  our  direction 
next  year.  My  people  are  the  salt  of  the  earth: 
I  have  so  much  to  tell  you  of  them.  Up  to 
the  present  time  I  have  been  holding  my  horses ; 
now  I  can  let  them  go." 

Little  as  he  felt  he  had  done  for  the  less 
prosperous  in  New  York,  he  had  already  be- 
come to  them  what  he  had  long  been  to  the 
people  of  the  South  End  of  Boston.  They 
felt  how  deep  was  the  sympathy  in  his  tender 
ministrations  to  their  suffering;  his  willing 
feet  were  in  their  streets ;  and  they  tell  to-day 
of  his  smile  and  of  his  word.  And  yet,  because 
he  wished  to  do  so  much  more  for  them,  he 
felt  that  he  must  have  neglected  them. 

To  his  brother  he  wrote:  "I  have  made  a 
bold  plan  on  my  debts.  I  owe  in  loans  from 
George  and  two  friends  just  $1,200.00,  on  which 
I  shall  pay  $200.00  quarterly  till  all  is  paid  up. 
I  have  paid  about  $400.00  in  debts,  besides 
$400.00  more  for  new  things,  and  nearly  $200.00 
in  chanty  (10  per  cent,  a  year)  since  I  came  (six 


i84 


EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 


months).     So  that  GHOST  seems  about  to  be 
laid. 

"Then  I  shall  look  for  a  WIFE." 
His  preaching  for  the  year  had  been  decid- 
edly his  best.  "I  have  not  always  done  my 
best,"  he  wrote  to  a  classmate,  "but  sometimes 
I  have  excelled  my  poor  fuddled  self  beyond 
the  dreams  of  my  most  conceited,  desirous 
moments."  A  sermon  on  the  Vision  Splendid 
— a  title  suggested  from  Wordsworth — founded 
on  Daniel's  prayer  toward  Jerusalem,  espe- 
cially moved   the  people.  *"     His  friend,    Mr. 

*  The  notes  from  which  this  sermon  was  preached  will  be 
of  interest,  as  showing  his  method  : 


^^  His  windows  being  open  .  .  . 
toward  Jet  usalem,Daniel  kneeled 
upon  kit  knees  .  .  .  and  prayed, 
and  gave  tkanks  be/ore  kis  God.' 
— Daniel  vi.  lo. 

Title:  (words  of  the  Poet 
Wordsworth)  '"The  Vision  Splen- 
did." 

A.  Dbscribk  Danibl  in  Exile. 
Tendency  to  forget .  .  . 
Tendency  to  disloyalty. 
Temptation  to  do  in  Babylon 

as  the  Babylonians  do. 
To  eive  in. 

To  lower  the  standards. 
To  cloud  the  vision. 
To  give  up  the  greater  things. 


B.  Dksckibb  Danikl  as 
Wished  to  Bb  in 
Own   Land. 

"  Jerusalem  "  :     what 
meant  to  him. 

As  "  Rome,"  *'  Mecca," 


He 
His 


that 


Daniel's  IdBal. 

Daniel  had  a  kidden  life, 
which  i;ave  blm  firmness 
in  the  right. 

His  vision  of  obedience  and 
service. 

His  dream  of  "  Home  "—as 

the  sailor. 
The   Window    Opened    to- 
ward Jerusalbm. 

Envy  him. 

"  Beyond  the  Alps  lies  Italy." 

"  Over  the  mountain  my  loved 
one  dwells." 

The  satisfaction  of  the  "ap- 
pointed task." 

Kingdom  which  cometb  not 
by  observation. 

Tke  Vision  of  God. 
.  Our  Exile. 

The  coarse  which  brutalizes. 

The  common  which  wearies. 

The  practical  which  disen- 
chants. 


THE    YEAR  IN  NEW   YORK 


185 


Nichols  of  Holy  Trinity,  probably  has  best 
described  his  New  York  preaching:  "How  full 
of  material  you  are,"  he  wrote  after  hearing  a 
week-day  address,  "earnest  truth  lit  up  by 
illustration  and  quotation!  And  the  simpli- 
city with  which  you  speak,  the  directness  and 
sincerity  comfort  me,  and  bless  us  all." 
In  June  he  presided  at  the  Alumni  Dinner  of 


F.  Our  Jkrusalkm. 

What  our  mind's  eye  sees. 
What  the  distant  scene  is. 
*'  The  hills  where  his  life  rose. 
And  the  sea  where  it  goes." 

G.  St.  A  u^s/ine.—"  The  life  of 

man  is    the  vision  of  the 

Lord." 
AtHtei.—^Tbtre  is    but  one 

thine    needful — to    (Hsssess 

God?' 
Words-worth. — "He     beholds 

the  light,    and    whence  it 

flows, 
He  sees  it  in  his  \of  ;  . .  . 
And  by  the  Vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended." 

H.  The    Prksence    and    Power 
OF  THE  Ideal. 
The  making  life  and  keeping 

life  worth  living. 
"  Great  Expectations." 
The  real  thing. 
Ideals   [homiletical   fortune  to 
the  man  who  will  invent  a  term 
meaning  same  thing]  : — 

Impatient :  Hard  to  sift  them 
out  from  the  cant  and  emotional 
rhetoric. 

Not  Commonplaces  :  Must  seek 
new  worlds  when   they  become 
so,  for  an  attained  ideal  is  a  mis- 
nomer— "  A  man's  reach  must  ex* 
ceed  his  grasp." 
"  We  nave  fed  our  sea  for  a 
thousand  years. 
But  she  calls  us  still  unfed. 


Though  there's  never  a  wave 
of  all  her  waves 
But      marks    our     English 
dead." 

/.   The  Window  Closed  ! 

Lack  of  courage. 

Lack  of  independent  spirit. 

Ashamed  to  stand  alone. 

Ashamed  not  to  do  the  best. 

Afraid  by  sin. 

Afraid  by  hypocrisy. 

Crowded   by  "  cares." 

Crowded  by  practical  affairs. 

Indifferent  from  forgetful- 
ness. 

Indifferent  from  lower  stand- 
ards. 

Scared  by  failure. 

Scared  by  personal  weakness. 
"  No  man  can  serve  two  mas- 
ters." 

%   The  Window  Open. 

Never  disowning  the  vision. 
"  What  I  aspired  to  be 
And  was  not,  comfortsme." 
Never  faint-hearted. 
Never  a  spiritual  coward  ; 
i.e.    sorry    you  have  seen 
the  right  and  must  live  up 
to  it.     "  So  free  we  seem,  so 
fettered  fast  we  are." 

tar  Our  Highest  Hope  is  that  on 
which  our  window  must  al- 
ways look. 

K.  Saved  by  Hope:  "The  star  to 
which  we  hitch  our  wagon, 
bitches  us." 


1 86 


EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 


the  Theological  School  in  Cambridge.  Bishop 
Lawrence  recalls  as  he  sat  beside  him  how 
bright  and  amusing  he  was  all  through  the  din- 
ner, and  all  the  men  recall  the  spirit  of  his  in- 
troductions to  the  speakers.  It  stirred  the  old 
friendship  within  him,  and,  when  back  in  New 
York,  the  stress  of  parish  life  abated,  he  gave 
himself  up  to  friendly  letters  for  several  days. 


We  are  the  citizens  of  the  par- 
ticular Jerusalem  we  dream  of. 

Like  chameleons,  we  take  the 
color  and  glory  of  the  vision  we 
rest  on. 

Open  our  window  on  what  we 
will— it  is  a  tnagic  window  ;  the 
choice  is  ours  ;  we  can  open  it  on 
what  we  please.  '''Magic  car- 
fttr 

But  our  vjkat  we  choose  is 
what  makts  or  breakt  us. 

Daniel  was  saved  by  his  faith 
in  his  Jerusalem. 

So  are  we. 

L.  As  A  Practical  Isstm  Alonb 
WB  Need  : 
I.   The  Vision  SpUndid. 
Cf.  Rome,     Mecca,    Jerusa- 
lem,   Bewildering  N.   Y., 
the      Heavenly      Jerusa- 
lem, 
z.  Balances  life. 
3.  Adjusts  values. 

3.  Weighs  varying  claims. 

4.  Directs  to  the  right  alterna- 

tive. 

5.  Kee{>s  us  from  living  for  the 

moment  only. 

6.  In   wanderings     and     way- 

wardness, in  discourage- 
ment and  un-success,  in 
sickness  and  pain — 
it  enables  us  to  look  up  to 
aee  the  good  time  coming, 
to  be  sure  of  the  issue  of 
the  captivity. 


II.  Tk€  Open  Window. 

.  Thismakes  us  one  with  many 
— how  ? 

One  with  the  noblest  of  all 
ages. 

One  with  the  poets  and 
prophets. 

One  with  all  the  saints. 

One  in  spiritual  fellowship 
with  the  golden  deeds. 
i.  Itgives  the  fresh  breeze  from 
heaven  (as  in  a  chamber) — 
to  all  our  work  ;  purijfitt 
our  thinking  and  speaking; 
makes  fresh  and  vigorous 
and  manly  all  our  motives. 

III.  "  Jerutalem." 
The  Messianic  kingdom. 
The  Utopia  of  Christ. 

The  Vision  Splendid  =  The 
Kine  and  the  Kingdom  in 
in  afl  their  beauty. 

To  save  ourselves  for  that. 

To  keep  pure  and  holy  for 
that. 

To  live  and  work  and  strive 
for  that. 

To  dream  and  pray  and 
think  of  nothing  but  that. 
This  it  is  to  be  like  Daniel— 
to  have  one's  window 
open  always  toward  Jeru- 
salem. 

To  have  one's  heart  and 
head  and  hand  dedicated 
only  to  being  obedient  to 
the  splendid  vision  of  God. 


THE    YEAR  IN  NEW   YORK  1 8/ 

"The  industrial  situation,"  he  wrote  to  one, 
"stalks  on,  a  fascinating  monster,  erxrhanting 
immortal  souls  who  ought  to  know  better. 
But  I  worry  little — the  Soul  will  survive,  and 
all  will  bow  before  the  Dreamer  whose  dreams 
will  come  true.  We  see  what  we  will — out 
of  the  fulness  of  the  heart  the  eye  seeth.    Love 

me,  Ned,  and  don't  let forget  me,  because 

I  love  you  both  and  never  forget  you." 

To  another  friend  he  made  up  a  letter  with 
quotations  from  his  "dear  old  Matthew  Ar- 
nold." Then  to  the  same  friend  he  wrote  a 
little  later:  "I  cannot  tell  you  the  very  deep 
thoughts  and  the  pride  and  the  yearning  affec- 
tion and  the  wave  on  wave  of  sympathy  your 
letter  gives  birth  to  in  me.  Nearly  ten  years 
ago,  lacking  a  few  months,  we  came  to  know 
each  other — though  I  had  known  you  as  a 
name  earlier.  I  think  how  much  each  of  us 
has  learned,  yes,  and  suffered  and  really  dared 
since  then.  I  remember  the  first  letters  that 
passed  between  us  when  I  went  to  my  first 
work  in  Springfield,  how  you  let  me  talk  to 
you,  how  I  told  out  my  ideals  to  you,  how  I 
insisted  upon  finding  yours  and  proving  them 
to  you.     Oh,  the  joy  of  all  that!     .     .     . 


l88  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

"Years  of  friendship,  with  never  a  cloud 
upon  it,  a  friendship  that  has  always  grown,  is 
to  grow  so  much  more.  Oh,  the  things  each 
of  us  has  loved — social  service,  loving  truth, 
brotherhood,  a  working,  loving  Church,  the 
inner  life  of  purity  and  consecration.  How  we 
have  wanted  to  serve  the  Christ  who  is — the 
'pale  Galilean,'  the  human  God,  the  'face  like 
this  face,'  the  Son  of  God  who  has  yet  a  war 
on  hand  and  in  whose  train  we  strive  so  to 
follow !  There  is  so  much  for  all  my  sympathy 
to  feed  upon — similar  ideals,  similar  ways  of 
arriving  at  them,  and  I  believe  (though  I  boast 
in  saying  it  for  myself)  similar  sincerity.   .   .   . 

"The  philosophy  seems  more  true  than  ever, 
and  sin  seems  more  and  more  distant.  To  be- 
lieve it  all  worthily,  to  live  to  it  bravely  is  my 
prayer  for  you  and  for  myself.  'The  Person 
of  Christ' — that  brings  it  all  to  the  right  quarter. 
Theology  is  still  the  Queen  of  Sciences.  Christ 
is  more  and  more  the  Life." 

A  friend  of  one  of  his  friends  came  to  him 
one  July  Sunday  and  they  lunched  together. 
The  man,  almost  a  stranger,  said  afterward 
that,  as  Atkinson  took  his  hand  and  looked  into 
his  face,  he  thought  he  had  never  before  seen 


THE    YEAR  IN  NEW   YORK  1 89 

love.  The  men  were  congenial  companions 
at  once,  and  over  the  table  Atkinson  told  many 
of  his  deeper  experiences  for  the  last  year.  A 
woman,  he  said,  came  to  him  one  day  half 
crazed  because  a  clergyman  had  failed  to  keep 
an  appointment  with  her,  and  she  allowed  the 
injury  to  prey  upon  her  mind  till  she  was  fast 
losing  self-control.  Atkinson  saw  the  diffi- 
culty. Strenuous  measures  were  needed." 
"I  never  did  such  a  thing  before,"  he  said, 
"but  I  told  her  God  was  speaking  through  me; 
'God  wants  you  to  stop  thinking  about  this,'  I 
said,  'God  is  speaking  to  you.  You  must 
stop.'"  As  the  guest  gazed  into  the  eager 
eyes  opposite  him,  he  felt  that  he  was  in  the 
presence  of  a  prophet  who  was  utterly  sure  of 
his  commission. 

Toward  the  end  of  July  Atkinson  prepared 
to  leave  New  York  for  his  two  months'  holi- 
day. He  was  going  to  visit  some  Massachu- 
setts friends  for  several  weeks;  then  he  had 
promised  to  spend  five  weeks  in  the  Catskills 
with  his  Senior  Warden.  Every  moment  of 
the  gay  plan  promised  joy,  both  for  him  and 
for  his  friends. 

"I  am  going,"  he  wrote,  "to  take  James's 


1 90         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

wonderful  new  book,  Harnack's  'What  is  Chris- 
tianity?*, a  volume  of  Ritschl,  some  poetry  and 
a  little  good  prose  to  digest. 

"My  year  has  been  a  great  step  ahead  for 
me,  and  I  look  forward  to  next  year  as  never 
to  any  before.  The  honor  and  success  I  have 
received,  so  far  beyond  my  expectations  and 
merit,  I  hope  to  deserve  more.  You  must  re- 
member me  in  every  way — to  visit  me  soon, 
to  think  of  me,  to  pray  for  me  once  in  a  while. ' ' 

He  said  good-by  to  the  Now  York  friends 
who  were  at  hand,  saying  buoyantly,  "I  have 
found  my  life  work."  They  laughed  and  said, 
"You  seem  very  sure  of  yourself."  Then  he 
laughed,  too,  like  a  boy:  "Of  course,"  he  said, 
"I  may  %t\.  fired — but  seriously  I  mean  this  to 
be  my  life  work:  you  will  find  me  at  this  church 
twenty  years  from  now." 

So  he  smiled  and  went  away. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

DEVERSORIUM    VIATORIS   HIEROSOLYMAM 
PROFICISCENTIS 

ATKINSON  reached  Boston  Tuesday, 
July  29,  and  after  lunching  with  his 
brother  Harry  at  Young's,  went  out  to  Man- 
chester-by-the-Sea,  where  he  had  promised  to 
spend  a  fortnight  with  his  friends,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Wilford  Hoopes.  Hoopes  was  an  old 
chum  of  the  Cambridge  days,  and  all  day  Wed- 
nesday, during  a  drive  in  the  morning  and  a 
walk  in  the  afternoon,  the  two  friends  talked 
over  the  old  congenial  themes.  Thursday  was 
another  happy  day,  spent  in  gay  conversation 
with  all  the  members  of  the  pleasant  house- 
hold; Thursday  evening  they  went  to  a  boat- 
launching  at  Essex,  but  there  was  an  accident, 
which  put  them  in  some  danger,  and  the 
launching  was  postponed.  "Let's  come 
again,"  cried  Atkinson,  "and  see  it  through." 
Friday,  August   i,  he  went  to  Plymouth  to 


V 


192  EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

spend  a  day  with  Allen  Rice,  who  was  in 
charge  of  Camp  Emmanuel,  as  usual.  Going 
through  Boston,  he  paused  to  call  on  an  aged 
friend  in  his  old  parish  who  was  ill.  Reaching 
Plymouth  at  noon,  he  drove  at  once  to  the 
Boys'  Camp.  Atkinson  gave  the  driver  three 
dollars.  "The  fare  is  two  dollars.  Sir,"  said 
the  man.  "Oh,  that's  near  enough,"  replied 
Atkinson.  Then  he  went  into  the  cottage, 
put  his  bag  in  Rice's  room,  ate  the  dinner  set 
before  him— ^for  the  boys  had  already  eaten — 
and,  immediately  after,  strolled  over  to  the 
spot  where  the  boys  were  playing  ball.  For  an 
hour  or  more  he  watched  the  game.  At  four 
o'clock,  while  the  game  was  still  on,  he  called 
to  Rice — who  was  still  busy,  of  course — "  I'm 
going  for  a  row." 

Boot  Pond  is  named  from  its  shape ;  its  great- 
est length  is  about  a  mile,  and  in  places  it  is 
eighty  feet  deep. 

Half  an  hour  after  Atkinson  had  left  the 
boys,  two  frightened  girls  came  running  down 
the  shore  calling  out  that  a  man  had  fallen  from 
his  boat.  The  camp  is  the  last  of  several  cot- 
tages along  the  shore,  and  no  one  had  any  no- 
tion who  the  man  might  be  till  the  news  reached 


DEVERSORIUM   VIATORIS  I93 

the  cars  of  Allen  Rice.  All  that  the  excited. 
girls  could  tell  was  that  they  had  seen  the  man 
out  in  the  boat ;  his  hat  blew  off ;  he  tried  to 
reach  it;  failing,  he  stood  in  the  boat  and 
poked  for  it  with  his  oar ;  in  his  evident  eager- 
ness he  leaned  over  too  far,  lost  his  balance 
and  fell.  The  girls  saw  him  rise  twice,  then 
first  they  understood  that  he  must  be  drown- 
ing. What  could  they  do?  Nothing  but  run 
as  fast  as  their  feet  could  carry  them  to 
arouse  the  neighbors.  But  when  the  neigh- 
bors came,  all  was  over:  the  boat  had  been 
blown  ashore  by  the  strong  wind;  Atkinson's 
coat,  carefully  folded,  was  lying  on  one  of  the 
seats;  and  the  hat  was  floating  on  the  water. 
This  was  Friday  afternoon,  August  i,  1902. 
Though  the  labor  was  incessant,  the  body  was 
not  recovered  till  three  o'clock  Monday  after- 
noon. Messages  of  the  accident  were  sent  at 
once;  and  the  brothers  came;  and  then  Mr. 
Hoopes.  The  pond  is  five  sandy  miles  from  the 
town ;  there  is  no  telephone  or  telegraph  con- 
nection with  it,  and  no  one  in  the  little  colony 
had  a  conveyance  of  any  sort.  But  every  one, 
stranger  though  he  had  been,  became  a  friend 
and  helped.      People  who  were  strangers  to 


194         EDWARD  LINCOLN  ATKINSON 

each  other  came  from  all  directions:  at  some 
time  their  lives  had  touched  Atkinson's,  or 
they  had  heard  of  him,  as  "the  man  who  was 
good  to  the  poor."  It  was  all  a  symbol  of  the 
romantic  interest  which  people  of  all  sorts  took 
in  him,  and  the  world  was  suddenly  poorer  to 
hundreds  who  had  perhaps  scarcely  spoken  to 
him.  The  three  days  were  crowded  with  heroic 
acts  of  effort  and  endurance. 

Allen  Rice  wrote  to  an  anxious  friend  a  little 
after:  "I  was  the  first  to  see  him  dead.  His 
face  was  calm  and  peaceful,  not  a  trace  of 
terror.  I  never  left  him  until  they  carried 
him  away  forever.  You  know  the  rest."  "It 
will  not  surprise  you,"  wrote  Hoopes,  "that 
his  countenance  was  absolutely  calm  and 
steady.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  fright; 
neither  was  there,  nor  had  there  been  before, 
the  least  trace  of  unrest.  On  the  contrary,  it 
was  written  as  plainly  as  his  friends  knew  he 
himself  would  have  told,  that,  as  he  fell,  he 
laughed  to  himself  for  his  self-forgetful  care- 
lessness, then  did  his  best  with  the  problem 
that  he  had  to  face,  and  then  quietly  fell 
asleep." 

Wednesday  afternoon,  in  the  old  town  where 


DEVERSORIUM   VIATORJS  IQJ 

he  had  played  as  a  boy,  they  laid  his  body  to 
rest  beside  the  graves  of  the  loved  father  and 
mother.  Mr.  Brooks  and  Mr.  Parks  said  the 
simple  service,  and  dear  friends  from  Cam- 
bridge, Boston  and  New  York  carried  the  bier. 
It  rained;  but,  as  the  last  words  were  said, 
the  summer  sun  burst  forth  in  his  might.  It 
seemed  as  if  a  radiant  voice  had  come  with 
assurance : 

.    .    .     "  At  the  last  a  Hand  came  through 
The  fire  above  my  head,  and  drew 
My  soul  to  Christ,  whom  now  I  see." 


PRESENT    DAY    PREACHING 

By  CHARLES   LEWIS   SLATTERY 

Rector  of  Orace  Church,  New  York 

Crown  8vo.     Cloth.     Si.oo  net  By  Mail  S1.06 

"...  The  book  is  of  value  not  only  to  preachers,  but  also 
to  laymen  as  well."  —  Evening  Transcript. 

"  Marked  by  practical  wisdom  and  good  sense.  Preachers 
of  all  churches  will  be  helped  by  their  helpful  suggestions." 

—  Presbyterian  Banner. 

"...  The  book  is  specially  pertinent  because  it  meets  the 
needs  of  to-day  and  b  readable  on  account  of  lively  wit  and 
happiness  of  phrase,  and  in  addition  to  this  it  is  full  of  whole- 
some thought  and  excellent  suggestion."  — 5/.  Andrews  Cross. 

"Dr.  Slattery's  book  discusses  the  function  of  preaching  in 
all  its  aspects  with  especial  regard  to  present-day  needs. 
And  there  is  no  part  of  it  which  he  does  not  illuminate  by 
his  discussion ....  It  is  a  book  to  make  the  clergy  think." 

—  The  Church  Times,  London. 

"He  gives  abundant  counsel  from  his  store  of  spiritual, 
intellectual,  and  pastoral  experience ....  In  the  lecture  on 
'Acquiring  Materials,'  he  is  at  his  best,  and  we  could  wish 
that  the  admirable  advice  were  pondered  and  followed  by 
every  preacher,  old  and  young."  —  The  Churchman,  London. 

"His  pages  abound  in  wise  saws,  illustrated  by  modern 
instances;  and  with  nothing  formal  or  academic  in  style,  he 
enlists  our  interest  throughout,  so  that  not  a  few  of  his  read- 
ers will  inevitably  wish  to  preach  with  the  simplicity,  raciness, 
and  directness  with  which  he  lectures  ....  To  master  what 
is  here  said  about*  the  value  of  great  books  would  be  to  im- 
part new  life  to  many  a  pulpit."  —  The  Baptist  Times,  London. 

"Dr.  Slattery  has  proved  himself  to  be  a  man  with  a  mes- 
sage for  preachers  of  to-day,  and  his  genial  common  sense, 
great  earnestness,  and  sense  of  proportion  make  him  a  safe 
guide ....  We  have  read  every  line  with  interest." 

—  The  Record,  London. 

"The  book  is  so  packed  with  plums  that  it  was  impossible 
to  resist  the  temptation  to  quote." 

—  The  Methodist  Times,  England. 

LONGMANS.  GREEN  &  CO..   New  York 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  WORLD 

A  STUDY  OF  CHRIST 

By  CHARLES  LEWIS  SLATTERY 

Crown  8vo,  Cloth.  $1.50  net  By  Mail  Si. 63 


"Wb  have  already  commended  Dean  Slattery's  new  book 
editorially  as  one  especially  adapted  to  the  present  critical 
period  in  the  Church.  .  .  .  The  book  is  really  one  of 
imusual  value,  and  especially  in  view  of  the  controversies 
of  the  present  day.  We  cannot  think  of  a  better  or  more 
satisfactory  volume  to  put  into  the  hands  of  those  whose 
faith  has  been  weakened  by  attacks  that  have  been  made 
from  within  or  without  the  Church's  communion.  Mr. 
Slattery  has  proven  himself  to  be  a  constructive  force  in 
the  Church  at  a  time  when  there  was  great  need  of  his 
services.  He  takes  rank  easily  among  the  best  thinkers 
of  the  Church  by  this  notable  production. 

— The  Living  Church, 

"  Thb  book  .  .  .  sustains  interest  from  first  to  last.  The 
footnotes  are  really  valuable,  with  their  quotations  from  emi- 
nent modem  scholars.  The  argument  in  favour  of  our  Lord's 
'  lightheartedness,'  as  an  essential  part  of  his  human  sym- 
pathy, is  as  striking  as  it  is  convincing,  aifd  the  chapter  on 
'The  Loneliness  of  Christ'  is  one  of  much  force  and  beauty. 
The  volume  is  hkely  to  be  useful,  both  as  a  hand  book  for 
the  theological  student  and  as  a  suggestive  treatise  for  the 
preacher.  It  has  its  place  as  a  contribution  to  Christian 
evidences. 

— The  Otiardian,  London. 


LONGMANS.  GREEN.  &  CO-  N^w  Yorlc 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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